UC-NRLF 


>o  A  nv 


THE 

ELIZABETH 

Lifewf 


AKY 


Tliis  book  can  be  kept  Two  Weeks. 


If  kept  longer,  a  fine  of  five  cents  per  week  must  lie  paid. 


If  injured  the  damage  must  be  made  good. 


Persons  twelve  years  of  age  and  over,  whether  regular  resi- 
dents or  residing  in  Marion  for  a  short  time  only,  are  invited 
to  use  the  Library. 


Only  one  boot  may  be  taken  free.    Two  others  are  allowed 
on  payment  of  five  cents  each. 


Books  to  be  renewed  must  be  returned  to  the  Library. 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  LAWS  OF  MASSACHUSETTS.— Whoever 
wilfully  and  maliciously  or  wantonly  and  without  cause  writes 
upon,  injures,  defaces,  tears  or  destroys  a  book,  plate,  picture, 
engraving  or  statue  belonging  to  a  law,  town,  city  or  other 
public  library,  shall  be  punished  by  a  fine  of  not  less  than  five, 
nor  more  than  fifty  dollars,  or  by  imprisonment  in  the  jail  not 
exceeding  six  months. 

ITMBSAW. 


Accessidflffiumber 

Fl  I74RETH   TABES  LIBRARY 


MARION,  MASSACffUSfTTS 


DEDICATED 

TO     THE     MEMORY     OF 
MY  MOTHER. 


75 


PREFACE. 


THE  sketches  included  in  this  volume  were  writ- 
ten during  a  residence  in  the  South,  which  has  em- 
braced the  greater  part  of  the  past  six  years.  As 
far  as  they  go  they  record  real  impressions;  but 
they  can  never  give  the  inward  charm  of  that  beau- 
tiful land  which  the  writer  has  learned  to  love,  and 
from  which  she  now  severs  herself  with  true  regret. 
Two  of  these  sketches  have  appeared  in  the  "  At- 
lantic Monthly,"  four  in  "  Appletons'  Journal,"  and 
one  each  in  "  Scribner's  Monthly,"  "  The  Galaxy," 
"  Lippincott's  Monthly,"  and  "  Harper's  Magazine." 

C.  F.  W. 


I 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

»   RODMAN  THE  KEEPER       ...  9 

•  SISTER  ST.  LUKE          .                      .  42 

Miss  ELISABETHA    ....  75 

OLD  GARDISTON            .           .            .           .  IO5 

THE  SOUTH  DEVIL              .                       .  *39 

,    IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY      ...  178 

FELIPA .       iQ7 

..    "BRO."      ......  221 

KING  DAVID  • 
UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE         .... 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 


The  long  years  come  and  go, 

And  the  Past, 

The  sorrowful,  splendid  Past, 
With  its  glory  and  its  woe, 

Seems  never  to  have  been. 
Seems  never  to  have  been  ? 

O  somber  days  and  grand, 

How  ye  crowd  back  once  more, 
Seeing  our  heroes'  graves  are  green 
By  the  Potomac  and  the  Cumberland, 
And  in  the  valley  of  the  Shenandoah ! 

When  we  remember  how  they  died, — 
In  dark  ravine  and  on  the  mountain-side, 
In  leaguered  fort  and  fire-encircled  town, 
And  where  the  iron  ships  went  down, — 
How  their  dear  lives  were  spent 
In  the  weary  hospital-tent, 
In  the  cockpit's  crowded  hive, 

it  seems 

Ignoble  to  be  alive  ! 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


"KEEPER  of  what?  Keeper  of  the  dead.  Well,  it  is 
easier  to  keep  the  dead  than  the  living ;  and  as  for  the  gloom 
of  the  thing,  the  living  among  whom  I  have  been  lately  were 
not  a  hilarious  set." 

John  Rodman  sat  in  the  doorway  and  looked  out  over  his 
domain.  The  little  cottage  behind  him  was  empty  of  life  save 
himself  alone.  In  one  room  the  slender  appointments  pro- 
vided by  Government  for  the  keeper,  who  being  still  alive 
must  sleep  and  eat,  made  the  bareness  doubly  bare ;  in  the 
other  the  desk  and  the  great  ledgers,  the  ink  and  pens,  the 


10  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

register,  the  loud-ticking  clock  on  the  wall,  and  the  flag  folded 
on  a  shelf,  were  all  for  the  kept,  whose  names,  in  hastily  writ- 
ten, blotted  rolls  of  manuscript,  were  waiting  to  be  transcribed 
in  the  new  red-bound  ledgers  in  the  keeper's  best  handwriting 
day  by  day,  while  the  clock  was  to  tell  him  the  hour  when  the 
flag  must  rise  over  the  mounds  where  reposed  the  bodies  of 
fourteen  thousand  United  States  soldiers — who  had  languished 
where  once  stood  the  prison-pens,  on  the  opposite  slopes,  now 
fair  and  peaceful  in  the  sunset ;  who  had  fallen  by  the  way  in 
long  marches  to  and  fro  under  the  burning  sun  ;  who  had 
fought  and  died  on  the  many  battle-fields  that  reddened  the 
beautiful  State,  stretching  from  the  peaks  of  the  marble  moun- 
tains in  the  smoky  west  down  to  the  sea-islands  of  the  ocean 
border.  The  last  rim  of  the  sun's  red  ball  had  sunk  below 
the  horizon  line,  and  the  western  sky  glowed  with  deep  rose- 
color,  which  faded  away  above  into  pink,  into  the  salmon-tint, 
into  shades  of  that  far-away  heavenly  emerald  which  the  brush 
of  the  earthly  artist  can  never  reproduce,  but  which  is  found 
sometimes  in  the  iridescent  heart  of  the  opal.  The  small 
town,  a  mile  distant,  stood  turning  its  back  on  the  cemetery ; 
but  the  keeper  could  see  the  pleasant,  rambling  old  mansions, 
each  with  its  rose-garden  and  neglected  outlying  fields,  the 
empty  negro  quarters  falling  into  ruin,  and  everything  just  as 
it  stood  when  on  that  April  morning  the  first  gun  was  fired 
on  Sumter ;  apparently  not  a  nail  added,  not  a  brushful  of 
paint  applied,  not  a  fallen  brick  replaced,  or  latch  or  lock  re- 
paired. The  keeper  had  noted  these  things  as  he  strolled 
through  the  town,  but  not  with  surprise ;  for  he  had  seen  the 
South  in  its  first  estate,  when,  fresh,  strong-,  and  fired  with 
enthusiasm,  he,  too,  had  marched  away  from  his  village  home 
with  the  colors  flying  above  and  the.  girls  waving  their  hand- 
kerchiefs behind,  as  the  regiment,  a  thousand  strong,  filed 
down  the  dusty  road.  That  regiment,  a  weak,  scarred  two 
hundred,  came  back  a  year  later  with  lagging  step  and  colors 
tattered  and  scorcjied,  and  the  girls  could  not  wave  their 
handkerchiefs,  wet  and  sodden  with  tears.  But  the  keeper, 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER.  \\ 

his  wound  healed,  had  gone  again ;  and  he  had  seen  with  his 
New  England  eyes  the  magnificence  and  the  carelessness  of 
the  South,  her  splendor  and  negligence,  her  wealth  and  thrift- 
lessness,  as  through  Virginia  and  the  fair  Carolinas,  across 
Georgia  and  into  sunny  Florida,  he  had  marched  month  by 
month,  first  a  lieutenant,  then  captain,  and  finally  major  and 
colonel,  as  death  mowed  down  those  above  him,  and  he  and 
his  good  conduct  were  left.  Everywhere  magnificence  went 
hand  in  hand  with  neglect,  and  he  had  said  so  as  chance  now 
and  then  threw  a  conversation  in  his  path. 

"  We  have  no  such  shiftless  ways,"  he  would  remark,  after 
he  had  furtively  supplied  a  prisoner  with  hard-tack  and  coffee. 

"And  no  such  grand  ones  either,"  Johnny  Reb  would  re- 
ply, if  he  was  a  man  of  spirit ;  and  generally  he  was. 

The  Yankee,  forced  to  acknowledge  the  truth  of  this  state- 
ment, qualified  it  by  observing  that  he  would  rather  have  more 
thrift  with  a  little  less  grandeur;  whereupon  the  other  an- 
swered that  he  would  not ;  and  there  the  conversation  rested. 
So  now  ex-Colonel  Rodman,  keeper  of  the  national  cemetery, 
viewed  the  little  town  in  its  second  estate  with  philosophic 
eyes.  "  It  is  part  of  a  great  problem  now  working  itself  out ; 
I  am  not  here  to  tend  the  living,  but  the  dead,"  he  said. 

Whereupon,  as  he  walked  among  the  long  mounds,  a  voice 
seemed  to  rise  from  the  still  ranks  below :  "  While  ye  have 
time,  do  good  to  men,"  it  said.  "Behold,  we  are  beyond 
your  care."  But  the  keeper  did  not  heed. 

This  still  evening  in  early  February  he  looked  out  over  the 
level  waste.  The  little  town  stood  in  the  lowlands;  there 
were  no  hills  from  whence  cometh  help — calm  heights  that 
lift  the  soul  above  earth  and  its  cares ;  no  river  to  lead  the 
aspirations  of  the  children  outward  toward  the  great  sea. 
Everything  was  monotonous,  and  the  only  spirit  that  rose 
above  the  waste  was  a  bitterness  for  the  gained  and  sorrow 
for  the  lost  cause.  The  keeper  was  the  only  man  whose 
presence  personated  the  former  in  their  sight,  and  upon  him 
therefore,  as  representative,  the  bitterness  fell,  not  in  words, 


12  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER 

but  in  averted  looks,  in  sudden  silences  when  he  approached, 
in  withdrawals  and  avoidance,  until  he  lived  and  moved  in  a 
vacuum ;  wherever  he  went  there  was  presently  no  one  save 
himself ;  the  very  shop-keeper  who  sold  him  sugar  seemed 
turned  into  a  man  of  wood,  and  took  his  money  reluctantly, 
although  the  shilling  gained  stood  perhaps  for  that  day's  din- 
ner. So  Rodman  withdrew  himself,  and  came  and  went 
among  them  no  more ;  the  broad  acres  of  his  domain  gave 
him  as  much  exercise  as  his  shattered  ankle  could  bear ;  he 
ordered  his  few  supplies  by  the  quantity,  and  began  the  life 
of  a  solitary,  his  island  marked  out  by  the  massive  granite  wall 
with  which  the  United  States  Government  has  carefully  sur- 
rounded those  sad  Southern  cemeteries  of  hers ;  sad,  not  so 
much  from  the  number  of  the  mounds  representing  youth 
and  strength  cut  off  in  their  bloom,  for  that  is  but  the  for- 
tune of  war,  as  for  the  complete  isolation  which  marks  them. 
"Strangers  in  a  strange  land"  is  the  thought  of  all  who, 
coming  and  going  to  and  from  Florida,  turn  aside  here  and 
there  to  stand  for  a  moment  among  the  closely  ranged  graves 
which  seem  already  a  part  of  the  past,  that  near  past  which 
in  our  hurrying  American  life  is  even  now  so  far  away.  The 
Government  work  was  completed  before  the  keeper  came; 
the  lines  of  the  trenches  were  defined  by  low  granite  copings, 
and  the  comparatively  few  single  mounds  were  headed  by 
trim  little  white  boards  bearing  generally  the  word  "  Un- 
known," but  here  and  there  a  name  and  an  age,  in  most  cases 
a  boy  from  some  far-away  Northern  State ;  "  twenty-one," 
"  twenty-two,"  said  the  inscriptions ;  the  dates  were  those 
dark  years  among  the  sixties,  measured  now  more  than  by 
anything  else  in  the  number  of  maidens  widowed  in  heart,  and 
women  widowed  indeed,  who  sit  still  and  remember,  while  the 
world  rushes  by.  At  sunrise  the  keeper  ran  up  the  stars  and 
stripes ;  and  so  precise  were  his  ideas  of  the  accessories  be- 
longing to  the  place,  that  from  his  own  small  store  of  money 
he  had  taken  enough,  by  stinting  himself,  to  buy  a  second 
flag  for  stormy  weather,  so  that,  rain  or  not,  the  colors  should 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER.  13 

float  over  the  dead.  This  was  not  patriotism  so  called,  or 
rather  miscalled,  it  was  not  sentimental  fancy,  it  was  not  zeal 
or  triumph ;  it  was  simply  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  a 
conscientiousness  which  had  in  it  nothing  of  religion,  unless 
indeed  a  man's  endeavor  to  live  up  to  his  own  ideal  of  his  duty 
be  a  religion.  The  same  feeling  led  the  keeper  to  spend  hours 
in  copying  the  rolls.  "  John  Andrew  Warren,  Company  G, 
Eighth  New  Hampshire  Infantry,"  he  repeated,  as  he  slowly 
wrote  the  name,  giving  "John  Andrew"  clear,  bold  capitals 
and  a  lettering  impossible  to  mistake ;  "  died  August  15,  1863, 
aged  twenty-two  years.  He  came  from  the  prison-pen  yon- 
der, and  lies  somewhere  in  those  trenches,  I  suppose.  Now 
then,  John  Andrew,  don't  fancy  I  am  sorrowing  for  you ;  no 
doubt  you  are  better  off  than  I  am  at  this  very  moment.  But 
none  the  less,  John  Andrew,  shall  pen,  ink,  and  hand  do  their 
duty  to  you.  For  that  I  am  here." 

Infinite  pains  and  labor  went  into  these  records  of  the 
dead ;  one  hair's-breadth  error,  and  the  whole  page  was  re- 
placed by  a  new  one.  The  same  spirit  kept  the  grass  care- 
fully away  from  the  low  coping  of  the  trenches,  kept  the 
graveled  paths  smooth  and  the  mounds  green,  and  the  bare 
little  cottage  neat  as  a  man-of-\var.  When  the  keeper  cooked 
his  dinner,  the  door  toward  the  east,  where  the  dead  lay,  was 
scrupulously  closed,  nor  was  it  opened  until  everything  was 
in  perfect  order  again.  At  sunset  the  flag  was  lowered,  and 
then  it  was  the  keeper's  habit  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down 
the  path  until  the  shadows  veiled  the  mounds  on  each  side, 
and  there  was  nothing  save  the  peaceful  green  of  earth.  "  So 
time  will  efface  our  little  lives  and  sorrows,"  he  mused,  "and 
we  shall  be  as  nothing  in  the  indistinguishable  past."  Yet 
none  the  less  did  he  fulfill  the  duties  of  every  day  and  hour 
with  exactness.  "  At  least  they  shall  not  say  that  I  was  lack- 
ing," he  murmured  to  himself  as  he  thought  vaguely  of  the 
future  beyond  these  graves.  Who  "  they "  were,  it  would 
have  troubled  him  to  formulate,  since  he  was  one  of  the  many 
sons  whom  New  England  in  this  generation  sends  forth  with 


14  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

a  belief  composed  entirely  of  negatives.  As  the  season  ad- 
vanced, he  worked  all  day  in  the  sunshine.  "  My  garden 
looks  well,"  he  said.  "  I  like  this  cemetery  because  it  is  the 
original  resting-place  of  the  dead  who  lie  beneath.  They 
were  not  brought  here  from  distant  places,  gathered  up  by 
contract,  numbered,  and  described  like  so  much  merchandise ; 
their  first  repose  has  not  been  broken,  their  peace  has  been 
undisturbed.  Hasty  burials  the  prison  authorities  gave  them  ; 
the  thin  bodies  were  tumbled  into  the  trenches  by  men  almost 
as  thin,  for  the  whole  State  went  hungry  in  those  dark  days. 
There  were  not  many  prayers,  no  tears,  as  the  dead-carts 
went  the  rounds.  But  the  prayers  had  been  said,  and  the 
tears  had  fallen,  while  the  poor  fellows  were  still  alive  in  the 
pens  yonder ;  and  when  at  last  death  came,  it  was  like  a  re- 
lease. They  suffered  long  ;  and  I  for  one  believe  that  there- 
fore shall  their  rest  be  long — long  and  sweet." 

After  a  time  began  the  rain,  the  soft,  persistent,  gray  rain 
of  the  Southern  lowlands,  and  he  staid  within  and  copied  an- 
other thousand  names  into  the  ledger.  He  would  not  allow 
himself  the  companionship  of  a  dog  lest  the  creature  should 
bark  at  night  and  disturb  the  quiet.  There  was  no  one  to 
hear  save  himself,  and  it  would  have  been  a  friendly  sound  as 
he  lay  awake  on  his  narrow  iron  bed,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
against  the  spirit  of  the  place.  He  would  not  smoke,  although 
he  had  the  soldier's  fondness  for  a  pipe.  Many  a  dreary  even- 
ing, beneath  a  hastily  built  shelter  of  boughs,  when  the  rain 
poured  down  and  everything  was  comfortless,  he  had  found 
solace  in  the  curling  smoke ;  but  now  it  seemed  to  him  that 
it  would  be  incongruous,  and  at  times  he  almost  felt  as  if  it 
would  be  selfish  too.  "  They  can  not  smoke,  you  know,  down 
there  under  the  wet  grass,"  he  thought,  as  standing  at  the 
window  he  looked  toward  the  ranks  of  the  mounds  stretching 
across  the  eastern  end  from  side  to  side — "  my  parade-ground," 
he  called  it.  And  then  he  would  smile  at  his  own  fancies, 
draw  the  curtain,  shut  out  the  rain  and  the  night,  light  his 
lamp,  and  go  to  work  on  the  ledgers  again.  Some  of  the 


RODMAN   THE  KEEPER.  15 

names  lingered  in  his  memory ;  he  felt  as  if  he  had  known 
the  men  who  bore  them,  as  if  they  had  been  boys  together, 
and  were  friends  even  now  although  separated  for  a  time. 
"  James  Marvin,  Company  B,  Fifth  Maine.  The  Fifth  Maine 
was  in  the  seven  days'  battle.  I  say,  do  you  remember  that 
retreat  down  the  Quaker  church  road,  and  the  way  Phil  Kear- 
ney held  the  rear-guard  firm  ?  "  And  over  the  whole  seven 
days  he  wandered  with  his  mute  friend,  who  remembered 
everything  and  everybody  in  the  most  satisfactory  way.  One 
of  the  little  head-boards  in  the  parade-ground  attracted  him 
peculiarly  because  the  name  inscribed  was  his  own :  "  — — 
Rodman,  Company  A,  One  Hundred  and  Sixth  New  York." 

"  I  remember  that  regiment ;  it  came  from  the  extreme 
northern  part  of  the  State.  Blank  Rodman  must  have  melted 
down  here,  coming  as  he  did  from  the  half-arctic  region  along 
the  St.  Lawrence.  I  wonder  what  he  thought  of  the  first  hot 
day,  say  in  South  Carolina,  along  those  simmering  rice-fields  ?  " 
He  grew  into  the  habit  of  pausing  for  a  moment  by  the  side 
of  this  grave  every  morning  and  evening.  "  Blank  Rodman. 
It  might  easily  have  been  John.  And  then,  where  should  / 
be?" 

But  Blank  Rodman  remained  silent,  and  the  keeper,  after 
pulling  up  a  weed  or  two  and  trimming  the  grass  over  his 
relative,  went  off  to  his  duties  again.  "I  am  convinced  that 
Blank  is  a  relative,"  he  said  to  himself;  "distant,  perhaps, 
but  still  a  kinsman." 

One  April  day  the  heat  was  almost  insupportable ;  but  the 
sun's  rays  were  not  those  brazen  beams  that  sometimes  in 
Northern  cities  burn  the  air  and  scorch  the  pavements  to  a 
white  heat ;  rather  were  they  soft  and  still ;  the  moist  earth 
exhaled  her  richness,  not  a  leaf  stirred,  and  the  whole  level 
country  seemed  sitting  in  a  hot  vapor-bath.  In  the  early 
dawn  the  keeper  had  performed  his  outdoor  tasks,  but  all  day 
he  remained  almost  without  stirring  in  his  chair  between  two 
windows,  striving  to  exist.  At  high  noon  out  came  a  little 
black  bringing  his  supplies  from  the  town,  whistling  and  shuf- 


16  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

fling  along,  gay  as  a  lark.  The  keeper  watched  him  coming 
slowly  down  the  white  road,  loitering  by  the  way  in  the  hot 
blaze,  stopping  to  turn  a  somersault  or  two,  to  dangle  over  a 
bridge  rail,  to  execute  various  impromptu  capers  all  by  him- 
self. He  reached  the  gate  at  last,  entered,  and,  having  come  all 
the  way  up  the  path  in  a  hornpipe  step,  he  set  down  his  basket 
at  the  door  to  indulge  in  one  long  and  final  double-shuffle 
before  knocking.  "  Stop  that ! "  said  the  keeper  through  the 
closed  blinds.  The  little  darkey  darted  back ;  but  as  nothing 
further  came  out  of  the  window — a  boot,  for  instance,  or  some 
other  stray  missile — he  took  courage,  showed  his  ivories,  and 
drew  near  again.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  have  you 
stirring  up  the  heat  in  that  way  ?  "  demanded  the  keeper. 

The  little  black  grinned,  but  made  no  reply,  unless  smooth- 
ing the  hot  white  sand  with  his  black  toes  could  be  construed 
as  such ;  he  now  removed  his  rimless  hat  and  made  a  bow. 

"  Is  it,  or  is  it  not  warm  ?  "  asked  the  keeper,  as  a  natural- 
ist might  inquire  of  a  salamander,  not  referring  to  his  own  so 
much  as  to  the  salamander's  ideas  on  the  subject. 

"  Dunno,  mars',"  replied  the  little  black. 

"  How  do  you  feel  ?  " 

"  'Spects  I  feel  all  right,  mars'." 

The  keeper  gave  up  the  investigation,  and  presented  to 
the  salamander  a  nickel  cent.  "  I  suppose  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  a  cool  spring  in  all  this  melting  country,"  he  said. 

But  the  salamander  indicated  with  his  thumb  a  clump  of 
trees  on  the  green  plain  north  of  the  cemetery.  "  Ole  Mars' 
Ward's  place — cole  spring  dah."  He  then  departed,  breaking 
into  a  run  after  he  had  passed  the  gate,  his  ample  mouth 
watering  at  the  thought  of  a  certain  chunk  of  taffy  at  the 
mercantile  establishment  kept  by  Aunt  Dinah  in  a  corner  of 
her  one-roomed  cabin.  At  sunset  the  keeper  went  thirstily 
out  with  a  tin  pail  on  his  arm,  in  search  of  the  cold  spring. 
"  If  it  could  only  be  like  the  spring  down  under  the  rocks 
where  I  used  to  drink  when  I  was  a  boy  ! "  he  thought.  He 
had  never  walked  in  that  direction  before.  Indeed,  now  that 


RODMAN   THE  KEEPER.  17 

he  had  abandoned  the  town,  he  seldom  went  beyond  the  walls 
of  the  cemetery.  An  old  road  led  across  to  the  clump  of 
trees,  through  fields  run  to  waste,  and  following  it  he  came  to 
the  place,  a  deserted  house  with  tumble-down  fences  and 
overgrown  garden,  the  out-buildings  indicating  that  once  upon 
a  time  there  were  many  servants  and  a  prosperous  master. 
The  house  was  of  wood,  large  on  the  ground,  with  encircling 
piazzas ;  across  the  front  door  rough  bars  had  been  nailed, 
and  the  closed  blinds  were  protected  in  the  same  manner; 
from  long  want  of  paint  the  clapboards  were  gray  and  mossy, 
and  the  floor  of  the  piazza  had  fallen  in  here  and  there  from 
decay.  The  keeper  decided  that  his  cemetery  was  a  much 
more  cheerful  place  than  this,  and  then  he  looked  around  for 
the  spring.  Behind  the  house  the  ground  sloped  down;  it 
must  be  there.  He  went  around  and  came  suddenly  upon  a 
man  lying  on  an  old  rug  outside  of  a  back  door.  "  Excuse 
me.  I  thought  nobody  lived  here,"  he  said. 

"  Nobody  does,"  replied  the  man ;  "  I  am  not  much  of  a 
body,  am  I  ?  " 

His  left  arm  was  gone,  and  his  face  was  thin  and  worn 
with  long  illness ;  he  closed  his  eyes  after  speaking,  as  though 
the  few  words  had  exhausted  him. 

"  I  came  for  water  from  a  cold  spring  you  have  here,  some- 
where," pursued  the  keeper,  contemplating  the  wreck  before 
him  with  the  interest  of  one  who  has  himself  been  severely 
wounded  and  knows  the  long,  weary  pain.  The  man  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  slope  without  unclosing  his  eyes,  and 
Rodman  went  off  with  his'pail  and  found  a  little  shady  hol- 
low, once  curbed  and  paved  with  white  pebbles,  but  now 
neglected,  like  all  the  place.  The  water  was  cold,  however, 
deliciously  cold.  He  filled  his  pail  and  thought  that  perhaps 
after  all  he  would  exert  himself  to  make  coffee,  now  that  the 
sun  was  down ;  it  would  taste  better  made  of  this  cold  water.' 
When  he  came  up  the  slope  the  man's  eyes  were  open. 

"  Have  some  water  ?  "  asked  Rodman. 

"  Yes ;  there's  a  gourd  inside." 


i8  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

The  keeper  entered,  and  found  himself  in  a  large,  bare 
room ;  in  one  corner  was  some  straw  covered  with  an  old 
counterpane,  in  another  a  table  and  chair ;  a  kettle  hung  in 
the  deep  fireplace,  and  a  few  dishes  stood  on  a  shelf ;  by  the 
door  on  a  nail  hung  a  gourd  ;  he  filled  it  and  gave  it  to  the 
host  of  this  desolate  abode.  The  man  drank  with  eagerness. 

"  Pomp  has  gone  to  town,"  he  said,  "  and  I  could  not  get 
down  to  the  spring  to-day,  I  have  had  so  much  pain." 

"  And  when  will  Pomp  return  ?  " 

"  He  should  be  here  now ;  he  is  very  late  to-night." 

"  Can  I  get  you  anything  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you  ;  he  will  soon  be  here." 

The  keeper  looked  out  over  the  waste  ;  there  was  no  one 
in  sight.  He  was  not  a  man  of  any  especial  kindliness — he 
had  himself  been  too  hardly  treated  in  life  for  that — but  he 
could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  leave  this  helpless  creature  all 
alone  with  night  so  near.  So  he  sat  down  on  the  door-step. 
"  I  will  rest  awhile,"  he  said,  not  asking  but  announcing  it. 
The  man  had  turned  away  and  closed  his  eyes  again,  and 
they  both  remained  silent,  busy  with  their  own  thoughts ;  for 
each  had  recognized  the  ex-soldier,  Northern  and  Southern,  in 
portions  of  the  old  uniforms,  and  in  the  accent.  The  war 
and  its  memories  were  still  very  near  to  the  maimed,  poverty- 
stricken  Confederate ;  and  the  other  knew  that  they  were,  and 
did  not  obtrude  himself. 

Twilight  fell,  and  no  one  came. 

"  Let  me  get  you  something,"  said  Rodman ;  for  the  face 
looked  ghastly  as  the  fever  abated.  The  other  refused. 
Darkness  came  ;  still,  no  one. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Rodman,  rising,  "  I  have  been  wounded 
myself,  was  in  hospital  for  months ;  I  know  how  you  feel. 
You  must  have  food — a  cup  of  tea,  now,  and  a  slice  of  toast, 
brown  and  thin." 

"  I  have  not  tasted  tea  or  wheaten  bread  for  weeks,"  an- 
swered the  man;  his  voice  died  off  into  a  wail,  as  though 
feebleness  and  pain  had  drawn  the  cry  from  him  in  spite  of 


RODMAN   THE  KEEPER.  19 

himself.  Rodman  lighted  a  match;  there  was  no  candle, 
only  a  piece  of  pitch-pine  stuck  in  an  iron  socket  on  the 
wall ;  he  set  fire  to  this  primitive  torch  and  looked  around. 

"  There  is  nothing  there,"  said  the  man  outside,  making 
an  effort  to  speak  carelessly ;  "  my  servant  went  to  town  for 
supplies.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  to  wait ;  he  will  come  pres- 
ently, and — and  I  want  nothing." 

.  But  Rodman  saw  through  proud  poverty's  lie ;  he  knew 
that  irregular  quavering  of  the  voice,  and  that  trembling  of 
the  hand ;  the  poor  fellow  had  but  one  to  tremble.  He  con- 
tinued his  search ;  but  the  bare  room  gave  back  nothing,  not 
a  crumb. 

"  Well,  if  you  are  not  hungry,"  he  said,  briskly,  "  I  am, 
hungry  as  a  bear ;  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I 
live  not  far  from  here,  and  I  live  all  alone  too ;  I  haven't  a 
servant  as  you  have.  Let  me  take  supper  here  with  you,  just 
for  a  change ;  and,  if  your  servant  comes,  so  much  the  better, 
he  can  wait  upon  us.  I'll  run  over  and  bring  back  the 
things." 

He  was  gone  without  waiting  for  reply;  the  shattered 
ankle  made  good  time  over  the  waste,  and  soon  returned, 
limping  a  little,  but  bravely  hasting,  while  on  a  tray  came  the 
keeper's  best  supplies,  Irish  potatoes,  corned  beef,  wheaten 
bread,  butter,  and  coffee ;  for  he  would  not  eat  the  hot  bis- 
cuits, the  corn-cake,  the  bacon  and  hominy  of  the  country, 
and  constantly  made  little  New  England  meals  for  himself  in 
his  prejudiced  little  kitchen.  The  pine-torch  flared  in  the 
doorway;  a  breeze  had  come  down  from  the  far  mountains 
and  cooled  the  air.  Rodman  kindled  a  fire  on  the  cavernous 
hearth,  filled  the  kettle,  found  a  saucepan,  and  commenced 
operations,  while  the  other  lay  outside  and  watched  every 
movement  in  the  lighted  room. 

"  All  ready ;  let  me  help  you  in.  Here  we  are  now ;  fried 
potatoes,  cold  beef,  mustard,  toast,  butter,  and  tea.  Eat, 
man ;  and  the  next  time  I  am  laid  up  you  shall  come  over  and 
cook  for  me." 


20  RODMAN   THE  KEEPER. 

Hunger  conquered,  and  the  other  ate,  ate  as  he  had  not 
eaten  for  months.  As  he  was  finishing  a  second  cup  of  tea, 
a  slow  step  came  around  the  house ;  it  was  the  missing  Pomp, 
an  old  negro,  bent  and  shriveled,  who  carried  a  bag  of  meal 
and  some  bacon  in  his  basket.  "  That  is  what  they  live  on," 
thought  the  keeper. 

He  took  leave  without  more  words,  "  I  suppose  now  I 
can  be  allowed  to  go  home  in  peace,"  he  grumbled  to  con- 
science. The  negro  followed  him  across  what  was  once  the 
lawn.  "  Fin'  Mars'  Ward  mighty  low,"  he  said  apologeti- 
cally, as  he  swung  open  the  gate  which  still  hung  between  its 
posts,  although  the  fence  was  down,  "  but  I  hurred  and  hurred 
as  fas'  as  I  could  ;  it's  mighty  fur  to  de  town.  Proud  to  see 
you,  sah  ;  hope  you'll  come  again.  Fine  fambly,  de  Wards, 
sah,  befo'  de  war." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  in  this  state  ?  "  asked  the  keeper. 

"  Ever  sence  one  ob  de  las'  battles,  sah ;  but  he's  worse 
sence  we  come  yer,  'bout  a  mont'  back." 

"  Who  owns  the  house  ?  Is  there  no  one  to  see  to  him  ? 
has  he  no  friends  ?  " 

"  House  b'long  to  Mars'  Ward's  uncle ;  fine  place  once, 
befo'  de  war ;  he's  dead  now,  and  dah's  nobuddy  but  Miss 
Bettina,  an'  she's  gone  off  somewhuz.  Propah  place,  sah,  fur 
Mars'  Ward — own  uncle's  house,"  said  the  old  slave,  loyally 
striving  to  maintain  the  family  dignity  even  then. 

"  Are  there  no  better  rooms — no  furniture  ?  " 

"  Sartin ;  but — but  Miss  Bettina,  she  took  de  keys ;  she 
didn't  know  we  was  comin' — " 

"  You  had  better  send  for  Miss  Bettina,  I  think,"  said  the 
keeper,  starting  homeward  with  his  tray,  washing  his  hands, 
as  it  were,  of  any  future  responsibility  in  the  affair. 

The  next  day  he  worked  in  his  garden,  for  clouds  veiled 
the  sun  and  exercise  was  possible  ;  but,  nevertheless,  he  could 
not  forget  the  white  face  on  the  old  rug.  "  Pshaw  !  "  he  said 
to  himself,  "  haven't  I  seen  tumble-down  old  houses  and  bat- 
tered human  beings  before  this  ?  " 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER.  2\ 

At  evening  came  a  violent  thunderstorm,  and  the  splen- 
dor of  the  heavens  was  terrible.  "  We  have  chained  you, 
mighty  spirit,"  thought  the  keeper  as  he  watched  the  light- 
ning, "  and  some  time  we  shall  learn  the  laws  of  the  winds 
and  foretell  the  storms  ;  then,  prayers  will  no  more  be  offered 
in  churches  to  alter  the  weather  than  they  would  be  offered 
now  to  alter  an  eclipse.  Yet  back  of  the  lightning  and  the 
wind  lies  the  power  of  the  great  Creator,  just  the  same." 

But  still  into  his  musings  crept,  with  shadowy  persistence, 
the  white  face  on  the  rug. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  if  white  faces  are  going 
around  as  ghosts,  how  about  the  fourteen  thousand  white 
faces  that  went  under  the  sod  down  yonder  ?  If  they  could 
arise  and  walk,  the  whole  State  would  be  filled  and  no  more 
carpet-baggers  needed."  So,  having  balanced  the  one  with 
the  fourteen  thousand,  he  went  to  bed. 

Daylight  brought  rain  —  still,  soft,  gray  rain ;  the  next 
morning  showed  the  same,  and  the  third  likewise,  the  nights 
keeping  up  their  part  with  low-down  clouds  and  steady  pat- 
tering on  the  roof.  "  If  there  was  a  river  here,  we  should 
have  a  flood,"  thought  the  keeper,  drumming  idly  on  his  win- 
dow-pane. Memory  brought  back  the  steep  New  England 
hillsides  shedding  their  rain  into  the  brooks,  which  grew  in  a 
night  to  torrents  and  filled  the  rivers  so  that  they  overflowed 
their  banks ;  then,  suddenly,  an  old  house  in  a  sunken  corner 
of  a  waste  rose  before  his  eyes,  and  he  seemed  to  see  the  rain 
dropping  from  a  moldy  ceiling  on  the  straw  where  a  white 
face  lay. 

"  Really,  I  have  nothing  else  to  do  to-day,  you  know,"  he 
remarked  in  an  apologetic  way  to  himself,  as  he  and  his  um- 
brella went  along  the  old  road  ;  and  he  repeated  the  remark 
as  he  entered  the  room  where  the  man  lay,  just  as  he  had  fan- 
cied, on  the  damp  straw. 

"  The  weather  is  unpleasant,"  said  the  man.  "  Pomp, 
bring  a  chair." 

Pomp  brought  one,  the  only  one,  and  the  visitor  sat  down. 


22  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

A  fire  smoldered  on  the  hearth  and  puffed  out  acrid  smoke 
now  and  then,  as  if  the  rain  had  clogged  the  soot  in  the  long- 
neglected  chimney ;  from  the  streaked  ceiling  oozing  drops 
fell  with  a  dull  splash  into  little  pools  on  the  decayed  floor ;  the 
door  would  not  close  ;  the  broken  panes  were  stopped  with 
rags,  as  if  the  old  servant  had  tried  to  keep  out  the  damp ;  in 
the  ashes  a  corn-cake  was  baking. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  not  been  so  well  during  these  long 
rainy  days,"  said  the  keeper,  scanning  the  face  on  the  straw. 

"  My  old  enemy,  rheumatism,"  answered  the  man ;  "  the 
first  sunshine  will  drive  it  away." 

They  talked  awhile,  or  rather  the  keeper  talked,  for  the 
other  seemed  hardly  able  to  speak,  as  the  waves  of  pain 
swept  over  him;  then  the  visitor  went  outside  and  called 
Pomp  out.  "Is  there  any  one  to  help  him,  or  not?"  he 
asked  impatiently. 

"  Fine  fambly,  befo'  de  war,"  began  Pomp. 

"  Never  mind  all  that ;  is  there  any  one  to  help  him  now 
— yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  old  black  with  a  burst  of  despairing  truth- 
fulness. "  Miss  Bettina,  she's  as  poor  as  Mars'  Ward,  an' 
dere's  no  one  else.  He's  had  noth'n  but  hard  corn-cake  for 
three  days,  an'  he  can't  swaller  it  no  more." 

The  next  morning  saw  Ward  De  Rosset  lying  on  the 
white  pallet  in  the  keeper's  cottage,  and  old  Pomp,  marveling 
at  the  cleanliness  all  around  him,  installed  as  nurse.  A  strange 
asylum  for  a  Confederate  soldier,  was  it  not  ?  But  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  change,  which  he  would  have  fought  with  his 
last  breath  if  consciousness  had  remained;  returning  fever, 
however,  had  absorbed  his  senses,  and  then  it  was  that  the 
keeper  and  the  slave  had  borne  him  slowly  across  the  waste, 
resting  many  times,  but  accomplishing  the  journey  at  last. 

That  evening  John  Rodman,  strolling  to  and  fro  in  the 
dusky  twilight,  paused  alongside  of  the  other  Rodman.  "  I 
do  not  want  him  here,  and  that  is  the  plain  truth,"  he  said, 
pursuing  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  "  He  fills  the  house ; 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 


23 


he  and  Pomp  together  disturb  all  my  ways.  He'll  be  ready 
to  fling  a  brick  at  me  too,  when  his  senses  come  back ;  small 
thanks  shall  I  have  for  lying  on  the  floor,  giving  up  all  my 
comforts,  and,  what  is  more,  riding  over  the  spirit  of  the  place 
with  a  vengeance  !  "  He  threw  himself  down  on  the  grass 
beside  the  mound  and  lay  looking  up  toward  the  stars,  which 
were  coming  out,  one  by  one,  in  the  deep  blue  of  the  South- 
ern night.  "  With  a  vengeance,  did  I  say  ?  That  is  it  ex- 
actly— the  vengeance  of  kindness.  The  poor  fellow  has  'suf- 
fered horribly  in  body  and  in  estate,  and  now  ironical  Fortune 
throws  him  in  my  way,  as  if  saying,  '  Let  us  see  how  far  your 
selfishness  will  yield.'  This  is  not  a  question  of  magnanim- 
ity ;  there  is  no  magnanimity  about  it,  for  the  war  is  over, 
and  you  Northerners  have  gained  every  point  for  which  you 
fought.  This  is  merely  a  question  between  man  and  man  ; 
it  would  be  the  same  if  the  sufferer  was  a  poor  Federal,  one 
of  the  ckrpet-b  aggers,  whom  you  despise  so,  for  instance,  or 
a  pagan  Chinaman.  And  Fortune  is  right ;  don't  you  think 
so,  Blank  Rodman  ?  I  put  it  to  you,  now,  to  one  who  has 
suffered  the  extreme  rigor  of  the  other  side — those  prison- 
pens  yonder." 

Whereupon  Blank  Rodman  answered  that  he  had  fought 
for  a  great  cause,  and  that  he  knew  it,  although  a  plain  man 
and  not  given  to  speech-making  ;  he  was  not  one  of  those  who 
had  sat  safely  at  home  all  through  the  war,  and  now  belittled 
it  and  made  light  of  its  issues.  (Here  a  murmur  came  up 
from  the  long  line  of  the  trenches,  as  though  all  the  dead  had 
cried  out.)  But  now  the  points  for  which  he  had  fought 
being  gained,  and  strife  ended,  it  was  the  plain  duty  of  every 
man  to  encourage  peace.  For  his  part  he  bore  no  malice ;  he 
was  glad  the  poor  Confederate  was  up  in  the  cottage,  and  he 
did  not  think  any  the  less  of  the  keeper  for  bringing  him 
there.  He  would  like  to  add  that  he  thought  more  of  him  ; 
but  he  was  sorry  to  say  that  he  was  well  aware  what  an  ef- 
fort it  was,  and  how  almost  grudgingly  the  charity  began. 

If  Blank  Rodman  did  not  say  this,  at  least  the  keeper  im- 


24  RODMAN   THE  KEEPER. 

agined  that  he  did.  "  That  is  what  he  would  have  said,"  he 
thought.  "  I  am  glad  you  do  not  object,"  he  added,  pretend- 
ing to  himself  that  he  had  not  noticed  the  rest  of  the  remark. 

"We  do  not  object  to  the  brave  soldier  who  honestly 
fought  for  his  cause,  even  though  he  fought  on  the  other 
side,"  answered  Blank  Rodman  for  the  whole  fourteen  thou- 
sand. "  But  never  let  a  coward,  a  double-face,  or  a  flippant- 
tongued  idler  walk  over  our  heads.  It  would  make  us  rise  in 
our  graves ! " 

And  the  keeper  seemed  to  see  a  shadowy  pageant  sweep 
by — gaunt  soldiers  with  white  faces,  arming  anew  against 
the  subtle  product  of  peace:  men  who  said,  "It  was  no- 
thing !  Behold,  we  saw  it  with  our  eyes  ! " — stay-at-home 
eyes. 

The  third  day  the  fever  abated,  and  Ward  De  Rosset  no- 
ticed his  surroundings.  Old  Pomp  acknowledged  that  he 
had  been  moved,  but  veiled  the  locality  :  "  To  a  frien's  house, 
Mars'  Ward." 

"  But  I  have  no  friends  now,  Pomp,"  said  the  weak  voice. 

Pomp  was  very  much  amused  at  the  absurdity  of  this. 
"  No  frien's !  Mars'  Ward,  no  frien's ! "  He  was  obliged  to 
go  out  of  the  room  to  hide  his  laughter.  The  sick  man  lay 
feebly  thinking  that  the  bed  was  cool  and  fresh,  and  the  closed 
green  blinds  pleasant ;  his  thin  fingers  stroked  the  linen  sheet, 
and  his  eyes  wandered  from  object  to  object.  The  only  thing 
that  broke  the  rule  of  bare  utility  in  the  simple  room  was  a 
square  of  white  drawing-paper  on  the  wall,  upon  which  was 
inscribed  in  ornamental  text  the  following  verse : 

"  Toujours  femme  vane, 
Bien  fou  qui  s'y  fie  ; 
Une  femme  souvent 
N'est  qu'une  plume  au  vent." 

With  the  persistency  of  illness  the  eyes  and  mind  of  Ward  De 
Rosset  went  over  and  over  this  distich ;  he  knew  something 
of  French,  but  was  unequal  to  the  effort  of  translating ;  the 


RODMAN   THE  KEEPER.  25 

rhymes  alone  caught  his  vagrant  fancy.  "  Toujours  femme 
varie,"  he  said  to  himself  over  and  over  again ;  and  when  the 
keeper  entered,  he  said  it  to  him. 

"  Certainly,"  answered  the  keeper;  "bien  fou  qui  s'y  fie. 
How  do  you  find  yourself  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  found  myself  at  all,  so  far.  Is  this  your 
house  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Pomp  told  me  I  was  in  a  friend's  house,"  observed  the 
sick  man,  vaguely. 

"Well,  it  isn't  an  enemy's.  Had  any  breakfast?  No? 
Better  not  talk,  then." 

He  went  to  the  detached  shed  which  served  for  a  kitchen, 
upset  all  Pomp's  clumsy  arrangements,  and  ordered  him  out- 
side ;  then  he  set  to  work  and  prepared  a  delicate  breakfast 
with  his  best  skill.  The  sick  man  eagerly  eyed  the  tray  as  he 
entered.  "  Better  have  your  hands  and  face  sponged  off,  I 
think,"  said  Rodman  ;  and  then  he  propped  him  up  skillfully, 
and  left  him  to  his  repast.  The  grass  needed  mowing  on  the 
parade-ground;  he  shouldered  his  scythe  and  started  down 
the  path,  viciously  kicking  the  gravel  aside  as  he  walked. 
'•  Wasn't  solitude  your  principal  idea,  John  Rodman,  when 
you  applied  for  this  place  ?  "  he  demanded  of  himself.  "  How 
much  of  it  are  you  likely  to  have  with  sick  men,  and  sick 
men's  servants,  and  so  forth  ?  " 

The  "  and  so  forth,"  thrown  in  as  a  rhetorical  climax, 
turned  into  reality  and  arrived  bodily  upon  the  scene — a  cli- 
max indeed.  One  afternoon,  returning  late  to  the  cottage,  he 
found  a  girl  sitting  by  the  pallet — a  girl  young  and  dimpled 
and  dewy ;  one  of  the  creamy  roses  of  the  South  that,  even 
in  the  bud,  are  richer  in  color  and  luxuriance  than  any  North- 
ern flower.  He  saw  her  through  the  door,  and  paused  ;  dis- 
tressed old  Pomp  met  him  and  beckoned  him  cautiously  out- 
side. "  Miss  Bettina,"  he  whispered  gutturally  ;  "  she's  come 
back  from  somewhuz,  an'  she's  awful  mad  'cause  Mars'  Ward's 
here.  I  tole  her  all  'bout  'em— de  leaks  an'  de  rheumatiz  an' 
2 


26  RODMAN   THE  KEEPER. 

de  hard  corn-cake,  but  she  done  gone  scole  me ;  and  Mars' 
Ward,  he  know  now  whar  he  is,  an'  he  mad  too." 

"  Is  the  girl  a  fool  ?  "  said  Rodman.  He  was  just  begin- 
ning to  rally  a  little.  He  stalked  into  the  room  and  confronted 
her.  "  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing — " 

"  Miss  Ward." 

"  And  I  am  John  Rodman,  keeper  of  the  national  ceme- 
tery." 

This  she  ignored  entirely ;  it  was  as  though  he  had  said, 
"  I  am  John  Jones,  the  coachman."  Coachmen  were  useful 
in  their  way  ;  but  their  names  were  unimportant. 

The  keeper  sat  down  and  looked  at  his  new  visitor.  The 
little  creature  fairly  radiated  scorn  ;  her  pretty  head  was  thrown 
back,  her  eyes,  dark  brown  fringed  with  long  dark  lashes, 
hardly  deigned  a  glance  ;  she  spoke  to  him  as  though  he  was 
something  to  be  paid  and  dismissed  like  any  other  mechanic. 

"  We  are  indebted  to  you  for  some  days'  -board,  I  believe, 
keeper — medicines,  I  presume,  and  general  attendance.  My 
cousin  will  be  removed  to-day  to  our  own  residence  ;  I  wish 
to  pay  now  what  he  owes." 

The  keeper  saw  that  her  dress  was  old  and  faded ;  the 
small  black  shawl  had  evidently  been  washed  and  many  times 
mended ;  the  old-fashioned  knitted  purse  she  held  in  her  hand 
was  lank  with  long  famine. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  ;  "  if  you  choose  to  treat  a  kindness 
in  that  way,  I  consider  five  dollars  a  day  none  too  much  for 
the  annoyance,  expense,  and  trouble  I  have  suffered.  Let 
me  see  :  five  days — or  is  it  six  ?  Yes.  Thirty  dollars,  Miss 
Ward." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  ;  she  flushed.  "  The  money  will 
be  sent  to  you,"  she  began  haughtily ;  then,  hesitatingly,  "  I 
must  ask  a  little  time — " 

"  O  Betty,  Betty,  you  know  you  can  not  pay  it.  Why  try 
to  disguise —  But  that  does  not  excuse  you  for  bringing  me 
here,"  said  the  sick  man,  turning  toward  his  host  with  an  at- 
tempt to  speak  fiercely,  which  ended  in  a  faltering  quaver. 


RODMAN   THE  KEEPER.  27 

All  this  time  the  old  slave  stood  anxiously  outside  of  the 
door ;  in  the  pauses  they  could  hear  his  feet  shuffling  as  he 
waited  for  the  decision  of  his  superiors.  The  keeper  rose  and 
threw  open  the  blinds  of  the  window  that  looked  out  on  the 
distant  parade-ground.  "  Bringing  you  here,"  he  repeated — 
" here ;  that  is  my  offense,  is  it?  There  they  lie,  fourteen 
thousand  brave  men  and  true.  Could  they  come  back  to 
earth  they  would  be  the  first  to  pity  and  aid  you,  now  that 
you  are  down.  So  would  it  be  with  you  if  the  case  were 
reversed ;  for  a  soldier  is  generous  to  a  soldier.  It  was  not 
your  own  heart  that  spoke  then  ;  it  was  the  small  venom  of  a 
woman,  that  here,  as  everywhere  through  the  South,  is  play- 
ing its  rancorous  part." 

The  sick  man  gazed  out  through  the  window,  seeing  for 
the  first  time  the  far-spreading  ranks  of  the  dead.  He  was 
very  weak,  and  the  keeper's  words  had  touched  him  ;  his  eyes 
were  suffused  with  tears.  But  Miss  Ward  rose  with  a  flash- 
ing glance.  She  turned  her  back  full  upon  the  keeper  and 
ignored  his  very  existence.  "  I  will  take  you  home  imme- 
diately, Ward — this  very  evening,"  she  said. 

"  A  nice,  comfortable  place  for  a  sick  man,"  commented 
the  keeper,  scornfully.  '•  I  am  going  out  now,  De  Rosset,  to 
prepare  your  supper ;  you  had  better  have  one  good  meal 
before  you  go." 

He  disappeared,  but  as  he  went  he  heard  the  sick  man 
say,  deprecatingly  :  "  It  isn't  very  comfortable  over  at  the  old 
house  now,  indeed  it  isn't,  Betty ;  I  suffered  " — and  the  girl's 
passionate  outburst  in  reply.  Then  he  closed  his  door  and 
set  to  work. 

When  he  returned,  half  an  hour  later,  Ward  was  lying 
back  exhausted  on  the  pillows,  and  his  cousin  sat  leaning  her 
head  upon  her  hand  ;  she  had  been  weeping,  and  she  looked 
very  desolate,  he  noticed,  sitting  there  in  what  was  to  her  an 
enemy's  country.  Hunger  is  a  strong  master,  however,  es- 
pecially when  allied  to  weakness  ;  and  the  sick  man  ate  with 
eagerness. 


28  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  said  the  girl,  rising.  "  A  wagon  will 
be  sent  out  for  you,  Ward  ;  Pomp  will  help  you." 

But  Ward  had  gained  a  little  strength  as  well  as  obstinacy 
with  the  nourishing  food.  "  Not  to-night,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  to-night." 

"  But  I  can  not  go  to-night ;  you  are  unreasonable,  Bettina. 
To-morrow  will  do  as  well,  if  go  I  must." 

"  If  go  you  must !  You  do  not  want  to  go,  then — to  go 
to  our  own  home — and  with  me  " —  Her  voice  broke  ;  she 
turned  toward  the  door. 

The  keeper  stepped  forward.  "  This  is  all  nonsense,  Miss 
Ward,"  he  said,  "  and  you  know  it.  Your  cousin  is  in  no 
state  to  be  moved.  Wait  a  week  or  two,  and  he  can  go  in 
safety.  But  do  not  dare  to  offer  me  your  money  again ;  my 
kindness  was  to  the  soldier,  not  to  the  man,  and  as  such  he 
can  accept  it.  Come  out  and  see  him  as  often  as  you  please. 
I  shall  not  intrude  upon  you.  Pomp,  take  the  lady  home." 

And  the  lady  went. 

Then  began  a  remarkable  existence  for  the  four  :  a  Con- 
federate soldier  lying  ill  in  the  keeper's  cottage  of  a  national 
cemetery  ;  a  rampant  little  rebel  coming  out  daily  to  a  place 
which  was  to  her  anathema-maranatha  ;  a  cynical,  misan- 
thropic keeper  sleeping  on  the  floor  and  enduring  every  va- 
riety of  discomfort  for  a  man  he  never  saw  before — a  man 
belonging  to  an  idle,  arrogant  class  he  detested  ;  and  an  old 
black  freedman  allowing  himself  to  be  taught  the  alphabet  in 
order  to  gain  permission  to  wait  on  his  master — master  no 
longer  in  law — with  all  the  devotion  of  his  loving  old  heart. 
For  the  keeper  had  announced  to  Pomp  that  he  must  learn 
his  alphabet  or  go ;  after  all  these  years  of  theory,  he,  as  a 
New-Englander,  could  not  stand  by  and  see  precious  knowl- 
edge shut  from  the  black  man.  So  he  opened  it,  and  mighty 
dull  work  he  found  it. 

Ward  De  Rosset  did  not  rally  as  rapidly  as  they  expected. 
The  white-haired  doctor  from  the  town  rode  out  on  horseback, 
pacing  slowly  up  the  graveled  roadway  with  a  scowl  on  his 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 


29 


brow,  casting,  as  he  dismounted,  a  furtive  glance  down  to- 
ward the  parade-ground.  His  horse  and  his  coat  were  alike 
old  and  worn,  and  his  broad  shoulders  were  bent  with  long 
service  in  the  miserably  provided  Confederate  hospitals,  where 
he  had  striven  to  do  his  duty  through  every  day  and  every 
night  of  those  shadowed  years.  Cursing  the  incompetency  in 
high  places,  cursing  the  mismanagement  of  the  entire  medical 
department  of  the  Confederate  army,  cursing  the  recklessness 
and  indifference  which  left  the  men  suffering  for  want  of 
proper  hospitals  and  hospital  stores,  he  yet  went  on  resolutely 
doing  his  best  with  the  poor  means  in  his  control  until  the 
last.  Then  he  came  home,  he  and  his  old  horse,  and  went 
the  rounds  again,  he  prescribing  for  whooping-cough  or  mea- 
sles, and  Dobbin  waiting  outside ;  the  only  difference  was 
that  fees  were  small  and  good  meals  scarce  for  both,  not  only 
for  the  man  but  for  the  beast.  The  doctor  sat  down  and 
chatted  awhile  kindly  with  De  Rosset,  whose  father  and  uncle 
had  been  dear  friends  of  his  in  the  bright,  prosperous  days  ; 
then  he  left  a  few  harmless  medicines  and  rose  to  go,  his  gaze 
resting  a  moment  on  Miss  Ward,  then  on  Pomp,  as  if  he  were 
hesitating.  But  he  said  nothing  until  on  the  walk  outside  he 
met  the  keeper,  and  recognized  a  person  to  whom  he  could 
tell  the  truth.  "  There  is  nothing  to  be  done  ;  he  may  recov- 
er, he  may  not ;  it  is  a  question  of  strength  merely.  He  needs 
no  medicines,  only  nourishing  food,  rest,  and  careful  tendance." 
"  He  shall  have  them,"  answered  the  keeper  briefly.  And 
then  the  old  gentleman  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away,  his 
first  and  last  visit  to  a  national  cemetery. 

"  National !  "  he  said  to  himself — "  national ! " 
All  talk  of  moving  De  Rosset  ceased,  but  Miss  Ward 
moved  into  the  old  house.  There  was  not  much  to  move  : 
herself,  her  one  trunk,  and  Mari,  a  black  attendant,  whose 
name  probably  began  life  as  Maria,  since  the  accent  still  dwelt 
on  the  curtailed  last  syllable.  The  keeper  went  there  once,  and 
once  only,  and  then  it  was  an  errand  for  the  sick  man,  whose 
fancies  came  sometimes  at  inconvenient  hours — when  Pomp 


3o  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

had  gone  to  town,  for  instance.  On  this  occasion  the  keeper 
entered  the  mockery  of  a  gate  and  knocked  at  the  front  door, 
from  which  the  bars  had  been  removed ;  the  piazza  still  showed 
its  decaying  planks,  but  quick-growing  summer  vines  had  been 
planted,  and  were  now  encircling  the  old  pillars  and  veiling  all 
defects  with  their  greenery.  It  was  a  woman's  pathetic  effort 
to  cover  up  what  can  not  be  covered — poverty.  The  blinds  on 
one  side  were  open,  and  white  curtains  waved  to  and  fro  in  the 
breeze ;  into  this  room  he  was  ushered  by  Mari.  Matting  lay 
on  the  floor,  streaked  here  and  there  ominously  by  the  damp- 
ness from  the  near  ground.  The  furniture  was  of  dark  ma- 
hogany, handsome  in  its  day  :  chairs,  a  heavy  pier-table  with 
low-down  glass,  into  which  no  one  by  any  possibility  could 
look  unless  he  had  eyes  in  his  ankles,  a  sofa  with  a  stiff  round 
pillow  of  hair-cloth  under  each  curved  end,  and  a  mirror  with 
a  compartment  framed  off  at  the  top,  containing  a  picture  of 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  and  lambs  with  blue  ribbons 
around  their  necks,  all  enjoying  themselves  in  the  most  natu- 
ral and  life-like  manner.  Flowers  stood  on  the  high  mantel- 
piece, but  their  fragrance  could  not  overcome  the  faint  odor 
of  the  damp  straw-matting.  On  a  table  were  books — a  life 
of  General  Lee,  and  three  or  four  shabby  little  volumes  printed 
at  the  South  during  the  war,  waifs  of  prose  and  poetry  of  that 
highly  wrought,  richly  colored  style  which  seems  indigenous 
to  Southern  soil. 

"  Some  way,  the  whole  thing  reminds  me  of  a  funeral," 
thought  the  keeper. 

Miss  Ward  entered,  and  the  room  bloomed  at  once ;  at 
least  that  is  what  a  lover  would  have  said.  Rodman,  how- 
ever, merely  noticed  that  she  bloomed,  and  not  the  room,  and 
he  said  to  himself  that  she  would  not  bloom  long  if  she  contin- 
ued to  live  in  such  a  moldy  place.  Their  conversation  in  these 
days  was  excessively  polite,  shortened  to  the  extreme  mini- 
mum possible,  and  conducted  without  the  aid  of  the  eyes,  at 
least  on  one  side.  Rodman  had  discovered  that  Miss  Ward 
never  looked  at  him,  and  so  he  did  not  look  at  her— that  is, 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER.  31 

not  often ;  he  was  human,  however,  and  she  was  delightfully 
pretty.  On  this  occasion  they  exchanged  exactly  five  sen- 
tences, and  then  he  departed,  but  not  before  his  quick  eyes 
had  discovered  that  the  rest  of  the  house  was  in  even  worse 
condition  than  this  parlor,  which,  by  the  way,  Miss  Ward  con- 
sidered quite  a  grand  apartment ;  she  had  been  down  near 
the  coast,  trying  to  teach  school,  and  there  the  desolation  was 
far  greater  than  here,  both  armies  having  passed  back  and 
forward  over  the  ground,  foragers  out,  and  the  torch  at  work 
more  than  once. 

"  Will  there  ever  come  a  change  for  the  better  ?  "  thought 
the  keeper,  as  he  walked  homeward.  "  What  an  enormous 
stone  has  got  to  be  rolled  up  hill !  But  at  least,  John  Rod- 
man, you  need  not  go  to  work  at  it ;  you  are  not  called  upon 
to  lend  your  shoulder." 

None  the  less,  however,  did  he  call  out  Pomp  that  very 
afternoon  and  sternly  teach  him  "E"  and  "F,"  using  the 
smooth  white  sand  for  a  blackboard,  and  a  stick  for  chalk. 
Pomp's  primer  was  a  Government  placard  hanging  on  the 
wall  of  the  office.  It  read  as  follows : 

IN  THIS  CEMETERY   REPOSE  THE   REMAINS 
OF 

FOURTEEN  THOUSAND  THREE  HUNDRED  AND   TWENTY-ONE 
UNITED  STATES  SOLDIERS. 

"  Tell  me  not  in  mournful  numbers 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ; 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

"  Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 

Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  written  of  the  soul ! " 

"  The  only  known  instance  of  the  Government's  conde- 
scending to  poetry,"  the  keeper  had  thought,  when  he  first 
read  this  placard.  It  was  placed  there  for  the  instruction  and 


32  RODMAN   THE  KEEPER. 

edification  of  visitors ;  but,  no  visitors  coming,  he  took  the 
liberty  of  using  it  as  a  primer  for  Pomp.  The  large  letters 
served  the  purpose  admirably,  and  Pomp  learned  the  entire 
quotation ;  what  he  thought  of  it  has  not  transpired.  Miss 
Ward  came  over  daily  to  see  her  cousin.  At  first  she  brought 
him  soups  and  various  concoctions  from  her  own  kitchen — 
the  leaky  cavern,  once  the  dining-room,  where  the  soldier 
had  taken  refuge  after  his  last  dismissal  from  hospital ;  but 
the  keeper's  soups  were  richer,  and  free  from  the  taint  of 
smoke ;  his  martial  laws  of  neatness  even  disorderly  old  Pomp 
dared  not  disobey,  and  the  sick  man  soon  learned  the  differ- 
ence. He  thanked  the  girl,  who  came  bringing  the  dishes 
over  carefully  in  her  own  dimpled  hands,  and  then,  when  she 
was  gone,  he  sent  them  untasted  away.  By  chance  Miss 
Ward  learned  this,  and  wept  bitter  tears  over  it ;  she  con- 
tinued to  come,  but  her  poor  little  soups  and  jellies  she 
brought  no  more. 

One  morning  in  May  the  keeper  was  working  near  the 
flag-staff,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  procession  coming  down 
the  road  which  led  from  the  town  and  turning  toward  the 
cemetery.  No  one  ever  came  that  way :  what  could  it  mean  ? 
It  drew  near,  entered  the  gate,  and  showed  itself  to  be  negroes 
walking  two  and  two — old  uncles  and  aunties,  young  men  and 
girls,  and  even  little  children,  all  dressed  in  their  best ;  a  very 
poor  best,  sometimes  gravely  ludicrous  imitations  of  "  ole 
mars'  "  or  "  ole  miss',"  sometimes  mere  rags  bravely  patched 
together  and  adorned  with  a  strip  of  black  calico  or  rosette  of 
black  ribbon  ;  not  one  was  without  a  badge  of  mourning.  All 
carried  flowers,  common  blossoms  from  the  little  gardens  be- 
hind the  cabins  that  stretched  around  the  town  on  the  out- 
skirts— the  new  forlorn  cabins  with  their  chimneys  of  piled 
stones  and  ragged  patches  of  corn  ;  each  little  darkey  had  his 
bouquet  and  marched  solemnly  along,  rolling  his  eyes  around, 
but  without  even  the  beginning  of  a  smile,  while  the  elders 
moved  forward  with  gravity,  the  bubbling,  irrepressible  gayety 
of  the  negro  subdued  by  the  new-born  dignity  of  the  freedman. 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 


33 


"  Memorial  Day,"  thought  the  keeper ;  "  I  had  forgotten  it." 
"  Will  you  do  us  de  hono',  sah,  to  take  de  head  ob  de  pro- 
cessio',  sah  ?  "  said  the  leader,  with  a  ceremonious  bow.  Now, 
the  keeper  had  not  much  sympathy  with  the  strewing  of  flow- 
ers, North  or  South ;  he  had  seen  the  beautiful  ceremony  more 
than  once  turned  into  a  political  demonstration.  Here,  how- 
ever, in  this  small,  isolated,  interior  town,  there  was  nothing 
of  that  kind ;  the  whole  population  of  white  faces  laid  their 
roses  and  wept  true  tears  on  the  graves  of  their  lost  ones  in 
the  village  churchyard  when  the  Southern  Memorial  Day  came 
round,  and  just  as  naturally  the  whole  population  of  black 
faces  went  out  to  the  national  cemetery  with  their  flowers  on 
the  day  when,  throughout  the  North,  spring  blossoms  were 
laid  on  the  graves  of  the  soldiers,  from  the  little  Maine  village 
to  the  stretching  ranks  of  Arlington,  from  Greenwood  to  the 
far  Western  burial-places  of  San  Francisco.  The  keeper 
joined  the  procession  and  led  the  way  to  the  parade-ground. 
As  they  approached  the  trenches,  the  leader  began  singing 
and  all  joined.  "  Swing  low,  sweet  chariot,"  sang  the  freed- 
men,  and  their  hymn  rose  and  fell  with  strange,  sweet  harmony 
—one  of  those  wild,  unwritten  melodies  which  the  North  heard 
with  surprise  and  marveling  when,  after  the  war,  bands  of 
singers  came  to  their  cities  and  sang  the  songs  of  slavery,  in 
order  to  gain  for  their  children  the  coveted  education.  "  Swing 
low,  sweet  chariot,"  sang  the  freedmen,  and  two  by  two  they 
passed  along,  strewing  the  graves  with  flowers  till  all  the 
green  was  dotted  with  color.  It  was  a  pathetic  sight  to  see 
some  of  the  old  men  and  women,  ignorant  field-hands,  bent, 
dull-eyed,  and  past  the  possibility  of  education  even  in  its 
simplest  forms,  carefully  placing  their  poor  flowers  to  the  best 
advantage.  They  knew  dimly  that  the  men  who  lay  beneath 
those  mounds  had  done  something  wonderful  for  them  and 
for  their  children ;  and  so  they  came  bringing  their  blossoms, 
with  little  intelligence  but  with  much  love. 

The  ceremony  over,  they  retired.    As  he  turned,  the  keeper 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Ward's  face  at  the  window. 


34 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 


"  Hope  we  's  not  makin'  too  free,  sah,"  said  the  leader,  as 
the  procession,  with  many  a  bow  and  scrape,  took  leave,  "  but 
we  's  kep'  de  day  now  two  years,  sah,  befo'  you  came,  sah,  an 
we 's  teachin'  de  chil'en  to  keep  it,  sah." 

The  keeper  returned  to  the  cottage.  "  Not  a  white  face," 
he  said. 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Miss  Ward,  crisply. 

"  I  know  some  graves  at  the  North,  Miss  Ward,  graves  of 
Southern  soldiers,  and  I  know  some  Northern  women  who  do 
not  scorn  to  lay  a  few  flowers  on  the  lonely  mounds  as  they 
pass  by  with  their  blossoms  on  our  Memorial  Day." 

"  You  are  fortunate.  They  must  be  angels.  We  have  no 
angels  here." 

"  I  am  inclined  to  believe  you  are  right,"  said  the  keeper. 

That  night  old  Pomp,  who  had  remained  invisible  in  the 
kitchen  during  the  ceremony,  stole  away  in  the  twilight  and 
came  back  with  a  few  flowers.  Rodman  saw  him  going  down 
toward  the  parade-ground,  and  watched.  The  old  man  had 
but  a  few  blossoms ;  he  arranged  them  hastily  on  the  mounds 
with  many  a  furtive  glance  toward  the  house,  and  then  stole 
back,  satisfied ;  he  had  performed  his  part. 

Ward  De  Rosset  lay  on  his  pallet,  apparently  unchanged  ; 
he  seemed  neither  stronger  nor  weaker.  He  had  grown 
childishly  dependent  upon  his  host,  and  wearied  for  him,  as 
the  Scotch  say ;  but  Rodman  withstood  his  fancies,  and  gave 
him  only  the  evenings,  when  Miss  Bettina  was  not  there. 
One  afternoon,  however,  it  rained  so  violently  that  he  was 
forced  to  seek  shelter ;  he  set  himself  to  work  on  the  ledgers  ; 
he  was  on  the  ninth  thousand  now.  But  the  sick  man  heard 
his  step  in  the  outer  room,  and  called  in  his  weak  voice, 
"  Rodman,  Rodman."  After  a  time  he  went  in,  and  it  ended 
in  his  staying ;  for  the  patient  was  nervous  and  irritable,  and 
he  pitied  the  nurse,  who  seemed  able  to  please  him  in  nothing. 
De  Rosset  turned  with  a  sigh  of  relief  toward  the  strong 
hands  that  lifted  him  readily,  toward  the  composed  manner, 
toward  the  man's  voice  that  seemed  to  bring  a  breeze  from 


RODMAN   THE  KEEPER. 


35 


outside  into  the  close  room ;  animated,  cheered,  he  talked 
volubly.  The  keeper  listened,  answered  once  in  a  while,  and 
quietly  took  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  into  his  own  hands. 
Miss  Ward  yielded  to  the  silent  change,  leaned  back,  and 
closed  her  eyes.  She  looked  exhausted  and  for  the  first  time 
pallid  ;  the  loosened  dark  hair  curled  in  little  rings  about  her 
temples,  and  her  lips  were  parted  as  though  she  was  too  tired 
to  close  them ;  for  hers  were  not  the  thin,  straight  lips  that* 
shut  tight  naturally,  like  the  straight  line  of  a  closed  box. 
The  sick  man  talked  on.  "  Come,  Rodman,"  he  said,  after  a 
while,  "  I  have  read  that  lying  verse  of  yours  over  at  least  ten 
thousand  and  fifty-nine  times;  please  tell  me  its  history;  I 
want  to  have  something  definite  to  think  of  when  I  read  it  for 
the  ten  thousand  and  sixtieth." 

"  Toujours  femme  varie, 
Bien  fou  qui  s'y  fie  ; 
Une  femme  souvent 
N'est  qu'une  plume  au  vent," 

read  the  keeper  slowly,  with  his  execrable  English  accent. 
"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  objection  to  telling  the 
story.  I  am  not  sure  but  that  it  will  do  me  good  to  hear  it 
all  over  myself  in  plain  language  again." 

"  Then  it  concerns  yourself,"  said  De  Rosset ;  "  so  much 
the  better.  I  hope  it  will  be,  as  the  children  say,  the  truth, 
and  long." 

"  It  will  be  the  truth,  but  not  long.  When  the  war  broke 
out  I  was  twenty-eight  years  old,  living  with  my  mother  on 
our  farm  in  New  England.  My  father  and  two  brothers  had 
died  and  left  me  the  homestead ;  otherwise  I  should  have 
broken  away  and  sought  fortune  farther  westward,  where  the 
lands  are  better  and  life  is  more  free.  But  mother  loved  the 
house,  the  fields,  and  every  crooked  tree.  She  was  alone,  and 
so  I  staid  with  her.  In  the  center  of  the  village  green  stood 
the  square,  white  meeting-house,  and  near  by  the  small  cot- 
tage where  the  pastor  lived ;  the  minister's  daughter,  Mary, 


3  6  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

was  my  promised  wife.  Mary  was  a  slender  little  creature 
with  a  profusion  of  pale  flaxen  hair,  large,  serious  blue  eyes, 
and  small,  delicate  features ;  she  was  timid  almost  to  a  fault ; 
her  voice  was  low  and  gentle.  She  was  not  eighteen,  and  we 
were  to  wait  a  year.  The  war  came,  and  I  volunteered,  of 
course,  and  marched  away ;  we  wrote  to  each  other  often ; 
my  letters  were  full  of  the  camp  and  skirmishes ;  hers  told  of 
the  village,  how  the  widow  Brown  had  fallen  ill,  and  how  it 
was  feared  that  Squire  Stafford's  boys  were  lapsing  into  fcvil 
ways.  Then  came  the  day  when  my  regiment  marched  to 
the  field  of  its  slaughter,  and  soon  after  our  shattered  remnant 
went  home.  Mary  cried  over  me,  and  came  out  every  day  to 
the  farmhouse  with  her  bunches  of  violets ;  she  read  aloud 
to  me  from  her  good  little  books,  and  I  used  to  lie  and  watch 
her  profile  bending  over  the  page,  with  the  light  falling  on  her 
flaxen  hair  low  down  against  the  small,  white  throat.  Then 
my  wound  healed,  and  I  went  again,  this  time  for  three  years  ; 
and  Mary's  father  blessed  me,  and  said  that  when  peace  came 
he  would  call  me  son,  but  not  before,  for  these  were  no  times 
for  marrying  or  giving  in  marriage.  He  was  a  good  man,  a 
red-hot  abolitionist,  and  a  roarinfg  lion  as  regards  temperance ; 
but  nature  had  made  him  so  small  in  body  that  no  one  was 
much  frightened  when  he  roared.  I  said  that  I  went  for  three 
years;  but  eight  years  have  passed  and  I  have  never  been 
back  to  the  village.  First,  mother  died.  Then  Mary  turned 
false.  I  sold  the  farm  by  letter  and  lost  the  money  three 
months  afterward  in  an  unfortunate  investment;  my  health 
failed.  Like  many  another  Northern  soldier,  I  remembered 
the  healing  climate  of  the  South ;  its  soft  airs  came  back  to 
me  when  the  snow  lay  deep  on  the  fields  and  the  sharp  wind 
whistled  around  the  poor  tavern  where  the  moneyless,  half- 
crippled  volunteer  sat  coughing  by  the  fire.  I  applied  for  this 
place  and  obtained  it.  That  is  all." 

"  But  it  is  not  all,"  said  the  sick  man,  raising  himself  on 
his  elbow ;  "  you  have  not  told  half  yet,  nor  anything  at  all 
about  the  French  verse." 


RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 


37 


"  Oh — that  ?  There  was  a  little  Frenchman  staying  at  the 
hotel ;  he  had  formerly  been  a  dancing-master,  and  was  full 
of  dry,  withered  conceits,  although  he  looked  like  a  thin  and 
bilious  old  ape  dressed  as  a  man.  He  taught  me,  or  tried  to 
teach  me,  various  wise  sayings,  among  them  this  one,  which 
pleased  my  fancy  so  much  that  I  gave  him  twenty-five  cents 
to  write  it  out  in  large  text  for  me." 

"  Toujours  femme  varie,"  repeated  De  Rosset ;  "  but  you 
don't  really  think  so,  do  you,  Rodman  ?  " 

"  I  do.  But  they  can  not  help  it ;  it  is  their  nature. — I 
beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Ward.  I  was  speaking  as  though  you 
were  not  here." 

Miss  Ward's  eyelids  barely  acknowledged  his  existence  ; 
that  was  all.  But  some  time  after  she  remarked  to  her  cousin 
that  it  was  only  in  New  England  that  one  found  that  pale 
flaxen  hair. 

June  was  waning,  when  suddenly  the  summons  came. 
Ward  De  Rosset  died.  He  was  unconscious  toward  the  last, 
and  death,  in  the  guise  of  sleep,  bore  away  his  soul.  They 
carried  him  home  to  the  old  house,  and  from  there  the  funeral 
started,  a  few  family  carriages,  dingy  and  battered,  following 
the  hearse,  for  death  revived  the  old  neighborhood  feeling ; 
that  honor  at  least  they  could  pay — the  sonless  mothers  and 
the  widows  who  lived  shut  up  in  the  old  houses  with  every- 
thing falling  into  ruin  around  them,  brooding  over  the  past. 
The  keeper  watched  the  small  procession  as  it  passed  his  gate 
on  its  way  to  the  churchyard  in  the  village.  "  There  he  goes, 
poor  fellow,  his  sufferings  over  at  last,"  he  said  ;  and  then  he 
set  the  cottage  in  order  and  began  the  old  solitary  life  again. 

He  saw  Miss  Ward  but  once. 

It  was  a  breathless  evening  in  August,  when  the  moon- 
light flooded  the  level  country.  He  had  started  out  to  stroll 
across  the  waste  ;  but  the  mood  changed,  and  climbing  over 
the  eastern  wall  he  had  walked  back  to  the  flag-staff,  and  now 
lay  at  its  foot  gazing  up  into  the  infinite  sky.  A  step  sounded 
on  the  gravel-walk ;  he  turned  his  face  that  way,  and  recog- 


3  8  RODMAN   THE  KEEPER. 

nized  Miss  Ward.  With  confident  step  she  passed  the  dark 
cottage,  and  brushed  his  arm  with  her  robe  as  he  lay  unseen 
in  the  shadow.  She  went  down  toward  the  parade-ground, 
and  his  eyes  followed  her.  Softly  outlined  in  the  moonlight, 
she  moved  to  and  fro  among  the  mounds,  pausing  often,  and 
once  he  thought  she  knelt.  Then  slowly  she  returned,  and 
he  raised  himself  and  waited;  she  saw  him,  started,  then 
paused. 

"  I  thought  you  were  away,"  she  said ;  "  Pomp  told  me 
so." 

"  You  set  him  to  watch  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  wished  to  come  here  once,  and  I  did  not  wish  to 
meet  you." 

"  Why  did  you  wish  to  come  ?  " 

"  Because  Ward  was  here — and  because — because — never 
mind.  It  is  enough  that  I  wished  to  walk  once  among  those 
mounds." 

"  And  pray  there  ?  " 

"  Well — and  if  I  did  !  "  said  the  girl  defiantly. 

Rodman  stood  facing  her,  with  his  arms  folded ;  his  eyes 
rested  on  her  face  ;  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,"  began  Miss  Ward  again, 
assuming  with  an  effort  her  old,  pulseless  manner.  "  I  have 
sold  the  place,  and  I  shall  never  return,  I  think ;  I  am  going 
far  away." 

"Where?" 

"  To  Tennessee." 

"  That  is  not  so  very  far,"  said  the  keeper,  smiling. 

"  There  I  shall  begin  a  new  existence,"  pursued  the  voice, 
ignoring  the  comment. 

"  You  have  scarcely  begun  the  old ;  you  are  hardly  more 
than  a  child,  now.  What  are  you  going  to  do  in  Tennes- 


see i 


"  Teach." 

"  Have  you  relatives  there  ?  " 

"  No." 


RODMAN   THE  KEEPER.  39 

"  A  miserable  life — a  hard,  lonely,  loveless  life,"  said  Rod- 
man. "  God  help  the  woman  who  must  be  that  dreary  thing, 
a  teacher  from  necessity  !  " 

Miss  Ward  turned  swiftly,  but  the  keeper  kept  by  her  side. 
He  saw  the  tears  glittering  on  her  eyelashes,  and  his  voice 
softened.  "  Do  not  leave  me  in  anger,"  he  said  ;  "  I  should 
not  have  spoken  so,  although  indeed  it  was  the  truth.  Walk 
back  with  me  to  the  cottage,  and  take  your  last  look  at  the 
room  where  poor  Ward  died,  and  then  I  will  go  with  you  to 
your  home." 

"  No ;  Pomp  is  waiting  at  the  gate,"  said  the  girl,  almost 
inarticulately. 

"  Very  well ;  to  the  gate,  then." 

They  went  toward  the  cottage  in  silence;  the  keeper 
threw  open  the  door.  "  Go  in,"  he  said.  "  I  will  wait  out- 
side." 

The  girl  entered  and  went  into  the  inner  room,  throwing 
herself  down  upon  her  knees  at  the  bedside.  "  O  Ward, 
Ward  !  "  she  sobbed ;  "  I  am  all  alone  in  the  world  now, 
Ward — all  alone ! "  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
gave  way  to  a  passion  of  tears ;  and  the  keeper  could  not 
help  but  hear  as  he  waited  outside.  Then  the  desolate  little 
creature  rose  and  came  forth,  putting  on,  as  she  did  so,  her 
poor  armor  of  pride.  The  keeper  had  not  moved  from  the 
door-step.  Now  he  turned  his  face.  "  Before  you  go — go 
away  for  ever  from  this  place — will  you  write  your  name  in 
my  register,"  he  said — "  the  visitors'  register  ?  The  Govern- 
ment had  it  prepared  for  the  throngs  who  would  visit  these 
graves ;  but  with  the  exception  of  the  blacks,  who  can  not 
write,  no  one  has  come,  and  the  register  is  empty.  Will  you 
write  your  name  ?  Yet  do  not  write  it  unless  you  can  think 
gently  of  the  men  who  lie  there  under  the  grass.  I  believe 
you  do  think  gently  of  them,  else  why  have  you  come  of  your 
own  accord  to  stand  by  the  side  of  their  graves  ?  "  As  he 
said  this,  he  looked  fixedly  at  her. 

Miss  Ward  did  not  answer ;  but  neither  did  she  write. 


40  RODMAN  THE  KEEPER. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  keeper;  "come  away.  You  will 
not,  I  see." 

"  I  can  not !  Shall  I,  Bettina  Ward,  set  my  name  down 
in  black  and  white  as  a  visitor  to  this  cemetery,  where  lie 
fourteen  thousand  of  the  soldiers  who  killed  my  father,  my 
three  brothers,  my  cousins ;  who  brought  desolation  upon  all 
our  house,  and  ruin  upon  all  our  neighborhood,  all  our  State, 
and  all  our  country  ? — for  the  South  is  our  country,  and  not 
your  North.  Shall  I  forget  these  things  ?  Never !  Sooner 
let  my  right  hand  wither  by  my  side !  I  was  but  a  child ;  yet 
I  remember  the  tears  of  my  mother,  and  the  grief  of  all 
around  us.  There  was  not  a  house  where  there  was  not  one 
dead." 

"  It  is  true,"  answered  the  keeper ;  "  at  the  South,  all 
went." 

They  walked  down  to  the  gate  together  in  silence. 

"  Good-by,"  said  John,  holding  out  his  hand;  "you  will 
give  me  yours  or  not  as  you  choose,  but  I  will  not  have  it  as  a 
favor." 

She  gave  it. 

"  I  hope  that  life  will  grow  brighter  to  you  as  the  years 
pass.  May  God  bless  you  ! " 

He  dropped  her  hand ;  she  turned,  and  passed  through 
the  gateway ;  then  he  sprang  after  her. 

"Nothing  can  change  you,"  he  said  ;  "  I  know  it,  I  have 
known  it  all  along ;  you  are  part  of  your  country,  part  of  the 
time,  part  of  the  bitter  hour  through  which  she  is  passing. 
Nothing  can  change  you ;  if  it  could,  you  would  not  be  what 
you  are,  and  I  should  not —  But  you  can  not  change.  Good- 
by,  Bettina,  poor  little  child — good-by.  Follow  your  path  out 
into  the  world.  Yet  do  not  think,  dear,  that  I  have  not  seen 
— have  not  understood." 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  hand ;  then  he  was  gone,  and  she 
went  on  alone. 

A  week  later  the  keeper  strolled  over  toward  the  old 
house.  It  was  twilight,  but  the  new  owner  was  still  at  work. 


RODMAN   THE  KEEPER.  41 

He  was  one  of  those  sandy-haired,  energetic  Maine  men, 
who,  probably  on  the  principle  of  extremes,  were  often  found 
through  the  South,  making  new  homes  for  themselves  in  the 
pleasant  land. 

"  Pulling  down  the  old  house,  are  you  ?  "  said  the  keeper, 
leaning  idly  on  the  gate,  which  was  already  flanked  by  a  new 
fence. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Maine  man,  pausing ;  "  it  was  only  an 
old  shell,  just  ready  to  tumble  on  our  heads.  You're  the 
keeper  over  yonder,  an't  you  ?  "  (He  already  knew  everybody 
within  a  circle  of  five  miles.) 

"  Yes.  I  think  I  should  like  those  vines  if  you  have  no 
use  for  them,"  said  Rodman,  pointing  to  the  uprooted  green- 
ery that  once  screened  the  old  piazza. 

"  Wuth  about  twenty-five  cents,  I  guess/'  said  the  Maine 
man,  handing  them  over. 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 


She  lived  shut  in  by  flowers  and  trees, 

And  shade  of  gentle  bigotries  ; 

On  this  side  lay  the  trackless  sea, 

On  that  the  great  world's  mystery  ; 

But,  all  unseen  and  all  unguessed, 

They  could  not  break  upon  her  rest. 

The  world's  far  glories  flamed  and  flashed, 

Afar  the  wild  seas  roared  and  dashed  ; 

But  in  her  small  dull  paradise, 

Safe  housed  from  rapture  or  surprise, 

Nor  day  nor  night  had  power  to  fright 
The  peace  of  God  within  her  eyes. 

JOHN  HAY. 


THEY  found  her  there.  "  This  is  more  than  I  expected," 
said  Carrington  as  they  landed — "  seven  pairs  of  Spanish  eyes 
at  once." 

"  Three  pairs,"  answered  Keith,  fastening  the  statement 
to  fact  and  the  boat  to  a  rock  in  his  calm  way ;  "  and  one  if 
not  two  of  the  pairs  are  Minorcan." 

The  two  friends  crossed  the  broad  white  beach  toward 
the  little  stone  house  of  the  light-keeper,  who  sat  in  the  door- 
way, having  spent  the  morning  watching  their  sail  cross  over 
from  Pelican  reef,  tacking  lazily  east  and  west — an  event  of 
more  than  enough  importance  in  his  isolated  life  to  have  kept 
him  there,  gazing  and  contented,  all  day.  Behind  the  broad 
shoulders  of  swarthy  Pedro  stood  a  little  figure  clothed  in 
black ;  and  as  the  man  lifted  himself  at  last  and  came  down 
to  meet  them,  and  his  wife  stepped  briskly  forward,  they  saw 
that  the  third  person  was  a  nun — a  large-eyed,  fragile  little 
creature,  promptly  introduced  by  Melvyna,  the  keeper's  wife, 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE, 


43 


as  "  Sister  St.  Luke."  For  the  keeper's  wife,  in  spite  of  her 
black  eyes,  was  not  a  Minorcan;  not  even  a  Southerner. 
Melvyna  Sawyer  was  born  in  Vermont,  and,  by  one  of  the 
strange  chances  of  this  vast,  many-raced,  motley  country  of 
ours,  she  had  traveled  south  as  nurse — and  a  very  good,  en- 
ergetic nurse  too,  albeit  somewhat  sharp-voiced — to  a  delicate 
young  wife,  who  had  died  in  the  sunny  land,  as  so  many  of 
them  die;  the  sun,  with  all  his  good  will  and  with  all  his 
shining,  not  being  able  to  undo  in  three  months  the  work  of 
long  years  of  the  snows  and  bleak  east  winds  of  New  Eng- 
land. 

The  lady  dead,  and  her  poor  thin  frame  sent  northward 
again  to  lie  in  the  hillside  churchyard  by  the  side  of  bleak 
Puritan  ancestors,  Melvyna  looked  about  her.  She  hated  the 
lazy  tropical  land,  and  had  packed  her  calf-skin  trunk  to  go, 
when  Pedro  Gonsalvez  surprised  her  by  proposing  matrimony. 
At  least  that  is  what  she  wrote  to  her  aunt  Clemanthy,  away 
in  Vermont;  and,  although  Pedro  may  not  have  used  the 
words,  he  at  least  meant  the  fact,  for  they  were  married  two 
weeks  later  by  a  justice  of  the  peace,  whom  Melvyna's  sharp 
eyes  had  unearthed,  she  of  course  deeming  the  padre  of  the 
little  parish  and  one  or  two  attendant  priests  as  so  much  dust 
to  be  trampled  energetically  under  her  shoes,  Protestant  and 
number  six  and  a  half  double-soled  mediums.  The  justice 
of  the  peace,  a  good-natured  old  gentleman  who  had  forgot- 
ten that  he  held  the  office  at  all,  since  there  was  no  demand 
for  justice  and  the  peace  was  never  broken,  married  them  as 
well  as  he  could  in  a  surprised  sort  of  way ;  and,  instead  of 
receiving  a  fee,  gave  one,  which  Melvyna,  however,  promptly 
rescued  from  the  bridegroom's  willing  hand,  and  returned 
with  the  remark  that  there  was  no  "call  for  alms"  (pro- 
nounced as  if  rhymed  with  hams),  and  that  two  shilling,  or 
mebbe  three,  she  guessed,  would  be  about  right  for  the  job. 
This  sum  she  deposited  on  the  table,  and  then  took  leave, 
walking  off  with  a  quick,  enterprising  step,  followed  by  her 
acquiescent  and  admiring  bridegroom.  He  had  remained  ac- 


44  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

quiescent  and  admiring  ever  since,  and  now,  as  lighthouse- 
keeper  on  Pelican  Island,  he  admired  and  acquiesced  more 
than  ever ;  while  Melvyna  kept  the  house  in  order,  cooked  his 
dinners,  and  tended  his  light,  which,  although  only  third-class, 
shone  and  glittered  under  her  daily  care  in  the  old  square 
tower  which  was  founded  by  the  Spaniards,  heightened  by 
the  English,  and  now  finished  and  owned  by  the  United 
States,  whose  Lighthouse  Board  said  to  each  other  every  now 
and  then  that  really  they  must  put  a  first-class  Fresnel  on 
Pelican  Island  and  a  good  substantial  tower  instead  of  that 
old-fashioned  beacon.  They  did  so  a  year  or  two  later ;  and 
a  hideous  barber's  pole  it  remains  to  the  present  day.  But 
when  Carrington  and  Keith  landed  there  the  square  tower 
still  stood  in  its  gray  old  age  at  the  very  edge  of  the  ocean, 
so  that  high  tides  swept  the  step  of  the  keeper's  house.  It 
was  originally  a  lookout  where  the  Spanish  soldier  stood  and 
fired  his  culverin  when  a  vessel  came  in  sight  outside  the  reef ; 
then  the  British  occupied  the  land,  added  a  story,  and  placed 
an  iron  grating  on  the  top,  where  their  coastguardsman  lighted 
a  fire  of  pitch-pine  knots  that  flared  up  against  the  sky,  with 
the  tidings,  "A  sail!  a  sail!"  Finally  the  United  States 
came  into  possession,  ran  up  a  third  story,  and  put  in  a  re- 
volving light,  one  flash  for  the  land  and  two  for  the  sea — a 
proportion  unnecessarily  generous  now  to  the  land,  since  no- 
thing came  in  any  more,  and  everything  went  by,  the  little 
harbor  being  of  no  importance  since  the  indigo  culture  had 
failed.  But  ships  still  sailed  by  on  their  way  to  the  Queen  of 
the  Antilles,  and  to  the  far  Windward  and  Leeward  Islands, 
and  the  old  light  went  on  revolving,  presumably  for  their 
benefit.  The  tower,  gray  and  crumbling,  and  the  keeper's 
house,  were  surrounded  by  a  high  stone  wall  with  angles 
and  loopholes — a  small  but  regularly  planned  defensive 
fortification  built  by  the  Spaniards;  and  odd  enough  it 
looked  there  on  that  peaceful  island,  where  there  was  no- 
thing to  defend.  But  it  bore  itself  stoutly  nevertheless,  this 
ancient  little  fortress,  and  kept  a  sharp  lookout  still  over 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  45 

the  ocean  for  the  damnable  Huguenot  sail  of  two  centuries 
before. 

The  sea  had  encroached  greatly  on  Pelican  Island,  and 
sooner  or  later  it  must  sweep  the  keeper's  house  away ;  but 
now  it  was  a  not  unpleasant  sensation  to  hear  the  water  wash 
against  the  step — to  sit  at  the  narrow  little  windows  and 
watch  the  sea  roll  up,  roll  up,  nearer  and  nearer,  coming  all 
the  way  landless  in  long  surges  from  the  distant  African 
coast,  only  to  never  quite  get  at  the  foundations  of  that  stub- 
born little  dwelling,  which  held  its  own  against  them,  and 
then  triumphantly  watched  them  roll  back,  roll  back,  depart- 
ing inch  by  inch  down  the  beach,  until,  behold !  there  was  a 
magnificent  parade-ground,  broad  enough  for  a  thousand  feet 
to  tread— a  floor  more  fresh  and  beautiful  than  the  marble 
pavements  of  palaces.  There  were  not  a  thousand  feet  to 
tread  there,  however ;  only  six.  For  Melvyna  had  more  than 
enough  to  do  within  the  house,  and  Pedro  never  walked  save 
across  the  island  to  the  inlet  once  in  two  weeks  or  so,  when 
he  managed  to  row  over  to  the  village,  and  return  with  sup- 
plies, by  taking  two  entire  days  for  it,  even  Melvyna  having 
given  up  the  point,  tacitly  submitting  to  loitering  she  could 
not  prevent,  but  recompensing  herself  by  a  general  cleaning 
on  those  days  of  the  entire  premises,  from  the  top  of  the 
lantern  in  the  tower  to  the  last  step  in  front  of  the  house. 

You  could  not  argue  with  Pedro.  He  only  smiled  back 
upon  you  as  sweetly  and  as  softly  as  molasses.  Melvyna,  en- 
deavoring to  urge  him  to  energy,  found  herself  in  the  position 
of  an  active  ant  wading  through  the  downy  recesses  of  a 
feather  bed,  which  well  represented  his  mind. 

Pedro  was  six  feet  two  inches  in  height,  and  amiable  as  a 
dove.  His  wife  sensibly  accepted  him  as  he  was,  and  he  had 
his  two  days  in  town — a  very  mild  dissipation,  however,  since 
the  Minorcans  are  too  indolent  to  do  anything  more  than 
smoke,  lie  in  the  sun,  and  eat  salads  heavily  dressed  in  oil. 
They  said,  "  The  serene  and  august  wife  of  our  friend  is  well, 
we  trust  ?  "  and,  "  The  island — does  it  not  remain  lonely  ?  " 


46  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

and  then  the  salad  was  pressed  upon  him  again.  For  they 
all  considered  Pedro  a  man  of  strange  and  varied  experiences. 
Had  he  not  married  a  woman  of  wonder — of  an  energy  un- 
fathomable ?  And  he  lived  with  her  alone  in  a  lighthouse, 
on  an  island  ;  alone,  mind  you,  without  a  friend  or  relation 
near ! 

The  six  feet  that  walked  over  the  beautiful  beach  of  the 
southern  ocean  were  those  of  Keith,  Carrington,  and  Sister 
St.  Luke. 

"  Now  go,  Miss  Luke,"  Melvyna  had  said,  waving  her  en- 
ergetically away  with  the  skimmer  as  she  stood  irresolute  at 
the  kitchen  door.  "  'Twill  do  you  a  power  of  good,  and 
they're  nice,  quiet  gentlemen  who  will  see  to  you,  and  make 
things  pleasant.  Bless  you,  /  know  what  they  are.  They 
ain't  none  of  the  miserable,  good-for-nothing  race  about  here ! 
Your  convent  is  fifty  miles  off,  ain't  it?  And  besides,  you 
were  brought  over  here  half  dead  for  me  to  cure  up — now, 
warn't  you  ?  " 

The  Sister  acknowledged  that  she  was,  and  Melvyna  went 
on : 

"  You  see,  things  is  different  up  North,  and  I  understand 
'em,  but  you  don't.  Now  you  jest  go  right  along  and  hev  a 
pleasant  walk,  and  I'll  hev  a  nice  bowl  of  venison  broth  ready 
for  you  when  you  come  back.  Go  right  along  now."  The 
skimmer  waved  again,  and  the  Sister  went. 

"  Yes,  she's  taken  the  veil,  and  is  a  nun  for  good  and  all," 
explained  Melvyna  to  her  new  guests  the  evening  of  their 
arrival,  when  the  shy  little  Sister  had  retreated  to  her  own 
room  above.  "  They  thought  she  was  dying,  and  she  was  so 
long  about  it,  and  useless  on  their  hands,  that  they  sent  her 
up  here  to  the  village  for  sea  air,  and  to  be  red  of  her,  I  guess. 
'Tany  rate,  there  she  was  in  one  of  them  crowded,  dirty  old 
houses,  and  so — I  jest  brought  her  over  here.  To  tell  the 
truth,  gentlemen — the  real  bottom  of  it — my  baby  died  last 
year— and — and  Miss  Luke  she  was  so  good  I'll  never  forget 
it.  I  ain't  a  Catholic— fur  from  it ;  I  hate  'em.  But  she  seen 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  47 

us  coming  up  from  the  boat  with  our  little  coffin,  and  she 
came  out  and  brought  flowers  to  lay  on  it,  and  followed  to 
the  grave,  feeble  as*  she  was ;  and  she  even  put  in  her  little 
black  shawl,  because  the  sand  was  wet — this  miserable  half- 
afloat  land,  you  know — and  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  the  coffin 
set  down  into  it.  And  I  said  to  myself  then  that  I'd  never 
hate  a  Catholic  again,  gentlemen.  I  don't  love  'em  yet,  and 
don't  know  as  I  ever  shell;  but  Miss  Luke,  she's  different. 
Consumption  ?  Well,  I  hardly  know.  She's  a  sight  better 
than  she  was  when  she  come.  I'd  like  to  make  her  well  again, 
and,  someway,  I  can't  help  a-trying  to,  for  I  was  a  nurse  by 
trade  once.  But  then  what's  the  use  ?  She'll  only  hev  to  go 
back  to  that  old  convent ! "  And  Melvyna  clashed  her  pans 
together  in  her  vexation.  "  Is  she  a  good  Catholic,  do  you 
say  ?  Heavens  and  earth,  yes  !  She's  that  religious — my  ! 
I  couldn't  begin  to  tell !  She  believes  every  word  of  all  that 
rubbish  those  old  nuns  have  told  her.  She  thinks  it's  beauti- 
ful to  be  the  bride  of  heaven ;  and,  as  far  as  that  goes,  I  don't 
know  but  she's  right :  'tain't  much  the  other  kind  is  wuth," 
pursued  Melvyna,  with  fine  contempt  for  mankind  in  general. 
"  As  to  freedom,  they've  as  good  as  shoved  her  off  their  hands, 
haven't  they  ?  And  I  guess  I  can  do  as  I  like  any  way  on  my 
own  island.  There  wasn't  any  man  about  their  old  convent, 
as  I  can  learn,  and  so  Miss  Luke,  she  hain't  been  taught  to 
run  away  from  'em  like  most  nuns.  Of  course,  if  they  knew, 
they  would  be  sending  over  here  after  her ;  but  they  don't 
know,  and  them  priests  in  the  village  are  too  fat  and  lazy  to 
earn  their  salt,  let  alone  caring  what  has  become  of  her.  I 
guess,  if  they  think  of  her  at  all,  they  think  that  she  died,  and 
that  they  buried  her  in  their  crowded,  sunken  old  graveyard. 
They're  so  slow  and  sleepy  that  they  forget  half  the  time  who 
they're  burying !  But  Miss  Luke,  she  ought  to  go  out  in  the 
air,  and  she  is  so  afraid  of  everything  that  it  don't  do  her  no 
good  to  go  alone.  I  haven't  got  the  time  to  go;  and  so,  if 
you  will  let  her  walk  along  the  beach  with  you  once  in  a  while, 
it  will  do  her  a  sight  of  good,  and  give  her  an  appetite — al- 


48  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

though  what  I  want  her  to  hev  an  appetite  for  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know ;  for,  ef  she  gets  well,  of  course  she'll  go  back  to 
the  convent.  Want  to  go  ?  That  she  does.  .  She  loves  the 
place,  and  feels  lost  and  strange  anywhere  else.  She  was 
taken  there  when  she  was  a  baby,  and  it  is  all  the  home  she 
has.  She  doesn't  know  they  wanted  to  be  red  of  her,  and  she 
wouldn't  believe  it  ef  I  was  to  tell  her  forty  times.  She  loves 
them  all  dearly,  and  prays  every  day  to  go  back  there.  Span- 
ish ?  Yes,  I  suppose  so  ;  she  don't  know  herself  what  she  is 
exactly.  She  speaks  English  well  though,  don't  she  ?  Yes, 
Sister  St.  Luke  is  her  name ;  and  a  heathenish  name  it  is  for 
a  woman,  in  my  opinion.  /  call  her  Miss  Luke.  Convert 
her  ?  Couldn't  any  more  convert  her  than  you  could  convert 
a  white  gull,  and  make  a  land-bird  of  him.  It's  his  nature  to 
ride  on  the  water  and  be  wet  all  the  time.  Towels  couldn't 
dry  him — not  if  you  fetched  a  thousand  !  " 

"  Our  good  hostess  is  a  woman  of  discrimination,  and 
sorely  perplexed,  therefore,  over  her  protegte"  said  Keith,  as 
the  two  young  men  sought  their  room,  a  loft  under  the  peaked 
roof,  which  was  to  be  their  abode  for  some  weeks,  when  they 
were  not  afloat.  "  As  a  nurse  she  feels  a  professional  pride 
in  curing,  while  as  a  Calvinist  she  would  almost  rather  kill 
than  cure,  if  her  patient  is  to  go  back  to  the  popish  convent. 
But  the  little  Sister  looks  very  fragile.  She  will  probably  save 
trouble  all  round  by  fading  away." 

"  She  is  about  as  faded  now  as  a  woman  can  be,"  answered 
Carrington. 

The  two  friends,  or  rather  companions,  plunged  into  all 
the  phases  of  the  southern  ocean  with  a  broad,  inhaling,  ex- 
panding delight  which  only  a  physique  naturally  fine,  or  care- 
fully trained,  can  feel.  George  Carrington  was  a  vigorous 
young  Saxon,  tall  and  broad,  feeling  his  life  and  strength  in 
every  vein  and  muscle.  Each  night  he  slept  his  eight  hours 
dreamlessly,  like  a  child,  and  each  day  he  lived  four  hours  in 
one,  counting  by  the  pallid  hours  of  other  men.  Andrew 
Keith,  on  the  other  hand,  represented  the  physique  cultured 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  49 

and  trained  up  to  a  high  point  by  years  of  attention  and  care. 
He  was  a  slight  man,  rather  undersized,  but  his  wiry  strength 
was  more  than  a  match  for  Carrington's  bulk,  and  his  finely 
cut  face,  if  you  would  but  study  it,  stood  out  like  a  cameo  by 
the  side  of  a  ruddy  miniature  in  oils.  The  trouble  is  that  but 
few  people  study  cameos.  He  was  older  than  his  companion,  and 
"  one  of  those  quiet  fellows,  you  know,"  said  the  world.  The 
two  had  never  done  or  been  anything  remarkable  in  their  lives. 
Keith  had  a  little  money,  and  lived  as  he  pleased,  while  Carring- 
ton,  off  now  on  a  vacation,  was  junior  member  of  a  firm  in 
which  family  influence  had  placed  him.  Both  were  city  men. 

"  You  absolutely  do  not  know  how  to  walk,  sefiora,"  said 
Keith.  "  I  will  be  doctor  now,  and  you  must  obey  me.  Never 
mind  the  crabs,  and  never  mind  the  jelly-fish,  but  throw  back 
your  head  and  walk  off  briskly.  Let  the  wind  blow  in  your 
face,  and  try  to  stand  more  erect." 

"  You  are  doctor  ?  They  told  me,  could  I  but  see  one, 
well  would  I  be,"  said  the  Sister.  "  At  the  convent  we  have 
only  Sister  Inez,  with  her  small  and  old  medicines." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  may  call  myself  doctor,"  answered  Keith 
gravely.  "  What  do  you  say,  Carrington  ?  " 

"  Knows  no  end,  Miss,  Miss — Miss  Luke — I  should  say, 
Miss  St.  Luke.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  stum- 
ble over  it  when  St.  John  is  a  common  enough  name,"  an- 
swered Carrington,  who  generally  did  his  thinking  aloud. 

"  No  end  ?  "  repeated  the  little  Sister  inquiringly.  "  But 
there  is  an  end  in  this  evil  world  to  all  things." 

"  Never  mind  what  he  says,  sefiora,"  interrupted  Keith, 
"  but  step  out  strongly  and  firmly,  and  throw  back  your  head. 
There  now,  there  are  no  crabs  in  sight,  and  the  beach  is  hard 
as  a  floor.  Try  it  with  me  :  one,  two  ;  one,  two." 

So  they  treated  her,  partly  as  a  child,  partly  as  a  gentle 
being  of  an  inferior  race.  It  was  a  new  amusement,  although 
a  rather  mild  one  Carrington  said,  to  instruct  this  unformed, 
timid  mind,  to  open  the  blinded  eyes,  and  train  the  ignorant 
ears  to  listen  to  the  melodies  of  nature. 
3 


5o  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

"  Do  you  not  hear  ?  It  is  like  the  roll  of  a  grand  organ," 
said  Keith  as  they  sat  on  the  door-step  one  evening  at  sunset. 
The  sky  was  dark  ;  the  wind  had  blown  all  day  from  the  north 
to  the  south,  and  frightened  the  little  Sister  as  she  toiled  at 
her  lace-work,  made  on  a  cushion  in  the  Spanish  fashion,  her 
lips  mechanically  repeating  prayers  meanwhile ;  for  never  had 
they  such  winds  at  the  inland  convent,  embowered  in  its 
orange-trees.  Now,  as  the  deep,  low  roll  of  the  waves  sounded 
on  the  shore,  Keith,  who  was  listening  to  it  with  silent  enjoy- 
ment, happened  to  look  up  and  catch  the  pale,  repressed  ner- 
vousness of  her  face. 

"  Oh,  not  like  an  organ,"  she  murmured.  "  This  is  a  fear- 
ful sound ;  but  an  organ  is  sweet — soft  and  sweet.  When 
Sister  Teresa  plays  the  evening  hymn  it  is  like  the  sighing  of 
angels." 

"  But  your  organ  is  probably  small,  senora." 

"  We  have  not  thought  it  small.  It  remains  in  our  chapel, 
by  the  window  of  arches,  and  below  we  walk,  at  the  hour  of 
meditation,  from  the  lime-tree  to  the  white-rose  bush,  and 
back  again,  while  the  music  sounds  above.  We  have  not 
thought  it  small,  but  large — yes,  very  large." 

"Four  feet  long,  probably,"  said  Carrington,  who  was 
smoking  an  evening  pipe,  now  listening  to  the  talk  awhile, 
now  watching  the  movements  of  two  white  heron  who  were 
promenading  down  the  beach.  "  I  saw  the  one  over  in  the 
village  church.  It  was  about  as  long  as  this  step." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Sister,  surveying  the  step,  "  it  is  about  as 
long  as  that.  It  is  a  very  large  organ. 

"  Walk  with  me  down  to  the  point,"  said  Keith — "  just 
once  and  back  again." 

The  docile  little  Sister  obeyed ;  she  always  did  immedi- 
ately whatever  they  told  her  to  do. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen  now ;  stand  still  and  listen — listen 
to  the  sea,"  said  Keith,  when  they  had  turned  the  point  and 
stood  alone  on  the  shore.  "  Try  to  think  only  of  the  pure, 
deep,  blue  water,  and  count  how  regularly  the  sound  rolls  up 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  51 

in  long,  low  chords,  dying  away  and  then  growing  louder, 
dying  away  and  then  growing  louder,  as  regular  as  your  own 
breath.  Do  you  not  hear  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  Sister  timorously. 

"  Keep  time,  then,  with  your  hand,  and  let  me  see  whether 
you  catch  the  measure." 

So  the  small  brown  hand,  nerveless  and  slender,  tried  to 
mark  and  measure  the  roar  of  the  great  ocean  surges,  and  at 
last  succeeded,  urged  on  by  the  alternate  praises  and  rebukes 
of  Keith,  who  watched  with  some  interest  a  faint  color  rise  in 
the  pale  oval  face,  and  an  intent  listening  look  come  into  the 
soft,  unconscious  eyes,  as,  for  the  first  time,  the  mind  caught 
the  mighty  rhythm  of  the  sea.  She  listened,  and  listened, 
standing  mute,  with  head  slightly  bent  and  parted  lips. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen  to  it  in  that  way  every  day,"  said 
Keith,  as  he  led  the  way  back.  "  It  has  different  voices : 
sometimes  a  fresh,  joyous  song,  sometimes  a  faint,  loving 
whisper;  but  always  something.  You  will  learn  in  time  to 
love  it,  and  then  it  will  sing  to  you  all  day  long." 

"  Not  at  the  dear  convent ;  there  is  no  ocean  there." 

"You  want  to  go  back  to  the  convent  ?  " 

"  Oh,  could  I  go  !  could  I  go  !  "  said  the  Sister,  not  impa- 
tiently, but  with  an  intense  yearning  in  her  low  voice.  "  Here, 
so  lost,  so  strange  am  I,  so  wild  X^eYything.  But  I  must 
not  murmur";  and  she  crossed/ 'Jj^r hands  upon  her  breast 
and  bowed  her  head. 

„_&: 

The  two  young  men  led  a  ric 
ocean,  with  the  winds,  with  the  level  is 
and  the  racing  clouds.  They  sailed  over  to  the  reef  daily  and 
plunged  into  the  surf ;  they  walked  for  miles  along  the  beach, 
and  ran  races  over  its  white  floor ;  they  hunted  down  the  cen- 
ter of  the  island,  and  brought  back  the  little  brown  deer  who 
lived  in  the  low  thicket  on  each  side  of  the  island's  backbone. 
The  island  was  twenty  miles  long  and  a  mile  or  two  broad, 
with  a  central  ridge  of  shell-formed  rock  about  twenty  feet  in 


52  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

height,  that  seemed  like  an  Appalachian  chain  on  the  level 
waste ;  below,  in  the  little  hollows  on  each  side,  spread  a  low 
tangled  thicket,  a  few  yards  wide ;  and  all  the  rest  was  barren 
sand,  with  movable  hills  here  and  there — hills  a  few  feet  in 
height,  blown  up  by  the  wind,  and  changed  in  a  night.  The 
only  vegetation  besides  the  thicket  was  a  rope-like  vine  that 
crept  over  the  sand,  with  few  leaves  far  apart,  and  now  and 
then  a  dull  purple  blossom — a  solitary  tenacious  vine  of  the 
desert,  satisfied  with  little,  its  growth  slow,  its  life  monoto- 
nous ;  yet  try  to  tear  it  from  the  surface  of  the  sand,  where  its 
barren  length  seems  to  lie  loosely  like  an  old  brown  rope 
thrown  down  at  random,  and  behold,  it  resists  you  stub- 
bornly. You  find  a  mile  or  two  of  it  on  your  hands,  clinging 
and  pulling  as  the  strong  ivy  clings  to  a  stone  wall ;  a  giant 
could  not  conquer  it,  this  seemingly  dull  and  half-dead  thing ; 
and  so  you  leave  it  there  to  creep  on  in  its  own  way,  over  the 
damp,  shell-strewn  waste.  One  day  Carrington  came  home 
in  great  glory ;  he  had  found  a  salt  marsh.  "  Something  be- 
sides this  sand,  you  know — a  stretch  of  saw-grass  away  to 
the  south,  the  very  place  for  fat  ducks.  And  somebody  has 
been  there  before  us,  too,  for  I  saw  the  mast  of  a  sail-boat 
some  distance  down,  tipped  up  against  the  sky." 

"  That  old  boat  is  ourn,  I  guess,"  said  Melvyna.  "  She 
drifted  down  there  one  high  tide,  and  Pedro  he  never  would 
go  for  her.  She  was  a  mighty  nice  little  boat,  too,  ef  she  was 
cranky." 

Pedro  smiled  amiably  back  upon  his  spouse,  and  helped 
himself  to  another  hemisphere  of  pie.  He  liked  the  pies,  al- 
though she  was  obliged  to  make  them,  she  said,  of  such  out- 
landish things  as  figs,  dried  oranges,  and  pomegranates.  "  If 
you  could  only  see  a  pumpkin,  Pedro,"  she  often  remarked, 
shaking  her  head.  Pedro  shook  his  back  in  sympathy ;  but, 
in  the  mean  time,  found  the  pies  very  good  as  they  were. 

"  Let  us  go  down  after  the  boat,"  said  Carrington.  "  You 
have  only  that  old  tub  over  at  the  inlet,  Pedro,  and  you  really 
need  another  boat."  (Carrington  always  liked  to  imagine 


SISTER  ST.   LUKE.  53 

that  he  was  a  constant  and  profound  help  to  the  world  at 
large.)  "  Suppose  anything  should  happen  to  the  one  you 
have  ?  "  Pedro  had  not  thought  of  that ;  he  slowly  put  down 
his  knife  and  fork  to  consider  the  subject. 

"  We  will  go  this  afternoon,"  said  Keith,  issuing  his  orders, 
"and  you  shall  go  with  us,  sefiora." 

"  And  Pedro,  too,  to  help  you,"  said  Melvyna.  "  I've  al- 
ways wanted  that  boat  back,  she  was  such  a  pretty  little 
thing  :  one  sail,  you  know,  and  decked  over  in  front ;  you  sat 
on  the  bottom.  I'd  like  right  well  to  go  along  myself;  but  I 
suppose  I'd  better  stay  at  home  and  cook  a  nice  supper  for 
you." 

Pedro  thought  so,  decidedly. 

When  the  February  sun  had  stopped  blazing  down  directly 
overhead,  and  a  few  white  afternoon  clouds  had  floated  over 
from  the  east  to  shade  his  shining,  so  that  man  could  bear  it, 
the  four  started  inland  toward  the  backbone  ridge,  on  whose 
summit  there  ran  an  old  trail  southward,  made  by  the  fierce 
Creeks  three  centuries  before.  Right  up  into  the  dazzling 
light  soared  the  great  eagles — straight  up,  up  to  the  sun,  their 
unshrinking  eyes  fearlessly  fixed  full  on  his  fiery  ball. 

"  It  would  be  grander  if  we  did  not  know  they  had  just 
stolen  their  dinners  from  the  poor  hungry  fish-hawks  over 
there  on  the  inlet,"  said  Carrington. 

Sister  St.  Luke  had  learned  to  walk  quite  rapidly  now. 
Her  little  black  gown  trailed  lightly  along  the  sand  behind 
her,  and  she  did  her  best  to  "  step  out  boldly,"  as  Keith  di- 
rected ;  but  it  was  not  firmly,  for  she  only  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing a  series  of  quick,  uncertain  little  paces  over  the  sand  like 
bird-tracks.  Once  Keith  had  taken  her  back  and  made  her 
look  at  her  own  uneven  footsteps.  "  Look — no  two  the  same 
distance  apart,"  he  said.  The  little  Sister  looked  and  was 
very  much  mortified.  "  Indeed,  I  will  try  with  might  to  do 
better,"  she  said.  And  she  did  try  with  might;  they  saw 
her  counting  noiselessly  to  herself  as  she  walked,  "  One,  two ; 
one,  two."  But  she  had  improved  so  much  that  Keith  now 


54 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 


devoted  his  energies  to  teaching  her  to  throw  back  her  head 
and  look  about  her.  "  Do  you  not  see  those  soft  banks  of 
clouds  piled  up  in  the  west  ?  "  he  said,  constantly  directing 
her  attention  to  objects  above  her.  But  this  was  a  harder 
task,  for  the  timid  eyes  had  been  trained  from  childhood  to 
look  down,  and  the  head  was  habitually  bent,  like  a  pendant 
flower  on  its  stem.  Melvyna  had  deliberately  laid  hands 
upon  the  heavy  veil  and  white  band  that  formerly  encircled 
the  small  face.  "  You  can  not  breathe  in  them,"  she  said. 
But  the  Sister  still  wore  a  light  veil  over  the  short  dark  hair, 
which  would  curl  in  little  rings  upon  her  temples  in  spite  of 
her  efforts  to  prevent  it ;  the  cord  and  heavy  beads  and  cross 
encircled  her  slight  waist,  while  the  wide  sleeves  of  her  nun's 
garb  fell  over  her  hands  to  the  finger-tips. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  she  would  look  dressed  like  other 
women  ? "  said  Carrington  one  day.  The  two  men  were 
drifting  in  their  small  yacht,  lying  at  ease  on  the  cushions, 
and  smoking. 

"  Well,"  answered  Keith  slowly,  "  if  she  was  well  dressed 
— very  well,  I  mean,  say  in  the  French  style — and  if  she  had 
any  spirit  of  her  own,  any  vivacity,  you  might,  with  that  dark 
face  of  hers  and  those  eyes — you  might  call  her  piquant." 

"  Spirit  ?  She  has  not  the  spirit  of  a  fly,"  said  Carring- 
ton, knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  fumbling  in  an 
embroidered  velvet  pouch,  one  of  many  offerings  at  his  shrine, 
for  a  fresh  supply  of  the  strong  aromatic  tobacco  he  affected, 
Keith  meanwhile  smoking  nothing  but  the  most  delicate  ciga- 
rettes. "  The  other  day  I  heard  a  wild  scream ;  and  rushing 
down  stairs  I  found  her  half  fainting  on  the  steps,  all  in  a 
little  heap.  And  what  do  you  think  it  was  ?  She  had  been 
sitting  there,  lost  in  a  dream — mystic,  I  suppose,  like  St.  Agnes — 
Deep  on  the  convent  roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes. 

May  my  soul  follow  soon — 
and  that  sort  of  thing." 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 


55 


"  No,"  said  Keith,  "  there  is  nothing  mystical  about  the 
Luke  maiden ;  she  has  never  even  dreamed  of  the  ideal  ec- 
stasies of  deeper  minds.  She  says  her  little  prayers  simply, 
almost  mechanically,  so  many  every  day,  and  dwells  as  it 
were  content  in  the  lowly  valleys  of  religion." 

"  Well,  whatever  she  was  doing,"  continued  Carrington, 
"  a  great  sea  crab  had  crawled  up  and  taken  hold  of  the  toe 
of  her  little  shoe.  Grand  tableau — crab  and  Luke  maiden ! 
And  the  crab  had  decidedly  the  better  of  it." 

"  She  is  absurdly  timid,"  admitted  Keith. 

And  absurdly  timid  she  was  now,  when,  having  crossed 
the  stretch  of  sand  and  wound  in  and  out  among  the  low 
hillocks,  they  came  to  the  hollow  where  grew  the  dark  green 
thicket,  through  which  they  must  pass  to  reach  the  Appala- 
chian range,  the  backbone  of  the  island,  where  the  trail  gave 
them  an  easier  way  than  over  the  sands.  Carrington  went 
first  and  hacked  out  a  path  with  his  knife ;  Keith  followed^ 
and  held  back  the  branches;  the  whole  distance  was  not 
more  than  twelve  feet ;  but  its  recesses  looked  dark  and 
shadowy  to  the  little  Sister,  and  she  hesitated. 

"  Come,  said  Carrington  ;  "  we  shall  never  reach  the  salt 
marsh  at  this  rate." 

"  There  is  nothing  dangerous  here,  senora,"  said  Keith. 
"  Look,  you  can  see  for  yourself.  And  there  are  three  of  us 
to  help  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Pedro — "  three  of  us."  And  he  swung  his 
broad  bulk  into  the  gap. 

Still  she  hesitated. 

"  Of  what  are  you  afraid  ?  "  called  out  Carrington  impa- 
tiently. 

"  I  know  not,  indeed,"  she  answered,  almost  in  tears  over 
her  own  behavior,  yet  unable  to  stir.  Keith  came  back,  and 
saw  that  she  was  trembling — not  violently,  but  in  a  subdued, 
helpless  sort  of  way  which  was  pathetic  in  its  very  causeless- 
ness. 

"  Take  her  up,  Pedro,"  he  ordered  ;  and,  before  she  could 


5 6  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

object,  the  good-natured  giant  had  borne  her  in  three  strides 
through  the  dreaded  region,  and  set  her  down  safely  upon 
the  ridge.  She  followed  them  humbly  now,  along  the  safe 
path,  trying  to  step  firmly,  and  walk  with  her  head  up,  as 
Keith  had  directed.  Carrington  had  already  forgotten  her 
again,  and  even  Keith  was  eagerly  looking  ahead  for  the  first 
glimpse  of  green. 

"  There  is  something  singularly  fascinating  in  the  stretch 
of  a  salt  marsh,"  he  said.  "  Its  level  has  such  a  far  sweep 
as  you  stand  and  gaze  across  it,  and  you  have  a  dreamy  feel- 
ing that  there  is  no  end  to  it.  The  stiff,  drenched  grasses 
hold  the  salt  which  the  tide  brings  in  twice  a  day,  and  you 
inhale  that  fresh,  strong,  briny  odor,  the  rank,  salt,  invigorat- 
ing smell  of  the  sea ;  the  breeze  that  blows  across  has  a  tang 
to  it  like  the  snap  of  a  whip-lash  across  your  face,  bringing 
the  blood  to  the  surface,  and  rousing  you  to  a  quicker  pace. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Carrington  ;  "  there  it  is.  Don't  you  see  the 
green?  A  little  farther  on,  you  will  see  the  mast  of  the 
boat." 

"That  is  all  that  is  wanted, "said  Keith.  "A  salt  marsh 
is  not  complete  without  a  boat  tilted  up  aground  somewhere, 
with  its  slender  dark  mast  outlined  against  the  sky.  A  boat 
sailing  along  in  a  commonplace  way  would  blight  the  whole 
thing ;  what  we  want  is  an  abandoned  craft,  aged  and  desert- 
ed, aground  down  the  marsh  with  only  its  mast  rising  above 
the  waste." 

"  Bten!  there  it  is," -said  Carrington  ;  "  and  now  the  ques- 
tion is,  how  to  get  to  it." 

"  You  two  giants  will  have  to  go,"  said  Keith,  finding  a 
comfortable  seat.  "  I  see  a  mile  or  two  of  tall  wading  be- 
fore us,  and  up  to  your  shoulders  is  over  my  head.  I  went 
duck-shooting  with  that  man  last  year,  sefiora.  '  Come  on,' 
he  cried — '  splendid  sport  ahead,  old  fellow ;  come  on.' 

"  '  Is  it  deep  ?  '  I  asked  from  behind.  I  was  already  up 
to  my  knees,  and  could  not  see  bottom,  the  water  was  so 
dark. 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  57 

" '  Oh,  no,  not  at  all ;  just  right,'  he  answered,  striding 
ahead.  '  Come  on.' 

"  I  came ;  and  went  in  up  to  my  eyes." 

But  the  senora  did  not  smile. 

"  You  know  Carrington  is  taller  than  I  am,"  explained 
Keith,  amused  by  the  novelty  of  seeing  his  own  stories  fall  flat. 

"  Is  he  ?  "  said  the  Sister  vaguely. 

It  was  evident  that  she  had  not  observed  whether  he  was 
or  not. 

Carrington  stopped  short,  and  for  an  instant  stared  blankly 
at  her.  What  every  one  noticed  and  admired  all  over  the 
country  wherever  he  went,  this  little  silent  creature  had  not 
even  seen ! 

"  He  will  never  forgive  you,"  said  Keith  laughing,  as  the 
two  tall  forms  strode  off  into  the  marsh.  Then,  seeing  that 
she  did  not  comprehend  in  the  least,  he  made  a  seat  for  her 
by  spreading  his  light  coat  on  the  Appalachian  chain,  and, 
leaning  back  on  his  elbow,  began  talking  to  her  about  the 
marsh.  "  Breathe  in  the  strong  salt,"  he  said,  "  and  let  your 
eyes  rest  on  the  green,  reedy  expanse.  Supposing  you  were 
painting  a  picture,  now — does  any  one  paint  pictures  at  your 
convent  ?  " 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  little  nun,  rousing  to  animation  at 
once.  "  Sister  St.  James  paints  pictures  the  most  beautiful 
on  earth.  She  painted  for  us  Santa  Inez  with  her  lamb,  and 
Santa  Rufina  of  Sevilla,  with  her  palms  and  earthen  vases." 

"  And  has  she  not  taught  you  to  paint  also  ?  " 

"  Me !  Oh,  no.  I  am  only  a  Sister  young  and  of  no  gifts. 
Sister  St.  James  is  a  great  saint,  and  of  age  she  has  seventy 
years." 

"  Not  requisites  for  painting,  either  of  them,  that  I  am 
aware,"  said  Keith.  "  However,  if  you  were  painting  this 
marsh,  do  you  not  see  how  the  mast  of  that  boat  makes  the 
feature  of  the  landscape  the  one  human  element;  and  yet, 
even  that  abandoned,  merged  as  it  were  in  the  desolate  wild- 
ness  of  the  scene  ?  " 


S8  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

The  Sister  looked  over  the  green  earnestly,  as  if  trying  to 
see  all  that  he  suggested.  Keith  talked  on.  He  knew  that 
he  talked  well,  and  he  did  not  confuse  her  with  more  than 
one  subject,  but  dwelt  upon  the  marsh ;  stories  of  men  who 
had  been  lost  in  them,  of  women  who  had  floated  down  in 
boats  and  never  returned ;  descriptions  clear  as  etchings ; 
studies  of  the  monotone  of  hues  before  them — one  subject 
pictured  over  and  over  again,  as,  wishing  to  instruct  a  child, 
he  would  have  drawn  with  a  chalk  one  letter  of  the  alphabet 
a  hundred  times,  until  the  wandering  eyes  had  learned  at  last 
to  recognize  and  know  it. 

"  Do  you  see  nothing  at  all,  feel  nothing  at  all  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Tell  me  exactly." 

Thus  urged,  the  Sister  replied  that  she  thought  she  did 
feel  the  salt  breeze  a  little. 

"  Then  take  off  that  shroud  and  enjoy  it,"  said  Keith,  ex- 
tending his  arm  suddenly,  and  sweeping  off  the  long  veil  by 
the  corner  that  was  nearest  to  him. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  little  Sister — "  oh  !  "  and  distressfully  she 
covered  her  head  with  her  hands,  as  if  trying  to  shield  herself 
from  the  terrible  light  of  day.  But  the  veil  had  gone  down 
into  the  thicket,  whither  she  dared  not  follow.  She  stood  ir- 
resolute. 

"  I  will  get  it  for  you  before  the  others  come  back,"  said 
Keith.  "  It  is  gone  now,  however,  and,  what  is  more,  you 
could  not  help  it ;  so  sit  down,  like  a  sensible  creature,  and 
enjoy  the  breeze." 

The  little  nun  sat  down,  and  confusedly  tried  to  be  a  sen- 
sible creature.  Her  head,  with  its  short  rings  of  dark  hair, 
rose  childlike  from  the  black  gown  she  wore,  and  the  breeze 
swept  freshly  over  her ;  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and 
her  face  so  pleading  in  its  pale,  silent  distress,  that  at  length 
Keith  went  down  and  brought  back  the  veil. 

"  See  the  cranes  flying  home,"  he  said,  as  the  long  line 
dotted  the  red  of  the  west.  "  They  always  seem  to  be  flying 
right  into  the  sunset,  sensible  birds  ! " 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 


59 


The  little  Sister  had  heard  that  word  twice  now ;  evidently 
the  cranes  were  more  sensible  than  she.  She  sighed  as  she 
fastened  on  the  veil ;  there  were  a  great  many  hard  things 
out  in  the  world,  then,  she  thought.  At  the  dear  convent  it 
was  not  expected  that  one  should  be  as  a  crane. 

The  other  two  came  back  at  length,  wet  and  triumphant, 
with  their  prize.  They  had  stopped  to  bail  it  out,  plug  its 
cracks,  mend  the  old  sail  after  a  fashion,  and  nothing  would 
do  but  that  the  three  should  sail  home  in  it,  Pedro,  for  whom 
there  was  no  room,  returning  by  the  way  they  had  come. 
Carrington,  having  worked  hard,  was  determined  to  carry  out 
his  plan  ;  and  said  so. 

"  A  fine  plan  to  give  us  all  a  wetting,"  remarked  Keith. 

"  You  go  down  there  and  work  an  hour  or  two  yourself, 
and  see  how  you  like  it,"  answered  the  other,  with  the  irrele- 
vance produced  by  aching  muscles  and  perspiration  dripping 
from  every  pore. 

This  conversation  had  taken  place  at  the  edge  of  the 
marsh  where  they  had  brought  the  boat  up  through  one  of 
the  numerous  channels. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Keith.  "  But  mind  you,  not  a  word 
about  danger  before  the  Sister.  I  shall  have  hard  enough 
work  to  persuade  her  to  come  with  us  as  it  is." 

He  went  back  to  the  ridge,  and  carelessly  suggested  re- 
turning home  by  water. 

"  You  will  not  have  to  go  through  the  thicket  then,"  he 
said. 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  Sister  St.  Luke  consented  im- 
mediately, and  followed  without  a  word  as  he  led  the  way. 
She  was  mortally  afraid  of  the  water,  but,  during  his  absence, 
she  had  been  telling  her  beads,  and  thinking  writh  contrition 
of  two  obstinacies  in  one  day — that  of  the  thicket  and  that  of 
the  veil — she  could  not,  she  would  not  have  three.  So,  com- 
mending herself  to  all  the  saints,  she  embarked. 

"  Look  here,  Carrington,  if  ever  you  inveigle  me  into  such 
danger  again  for  a  mere  fool's  fancy,  I  will  show  you  what  I 


60  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

think  of  it.  You  knew  the  condition  of  that  boat,  and  I  did 
not,"  said  Keith,  sternly,  as  the  two  men  stood  at  last  on  the 
beach  in  front  of  the  lighthouse.  The  Sister  had  gone 
within,  glad  to  feel  land  underfoot  once  more.  She  had  sat 
quietly  in  her  place  all  the  way,  afraid  of  the  water,  of  the 
wind,  of  everything,  but  entirely  unconscious  of  the  real  dan- 
ger that  menaced  them.  For  the  little  craft  would  not  mind 
her  helm ;  her  mast  slipped  about  erratically  ;  the  planking  at 
the  bow  seemed  about  to  give  way  altogether ;  and  they  were 
on  a  lee  shore,  with  the  tide  coming  in,  and  the  surf  beating 
roughly  on  the  beach.  They  were  both  good  sailors,  but  it 
had  taken  all  they  knew  to  bring  the  boat  safely  to  the  light- 
house. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  did  not  think  she  was  so  crippled," 
said  Carrington.  "  She  really  is  a  good  boat  for  her  size." 

"  Very,"  said  Keith  sarcastically. 

But  the  younger  man  clung  to  his  opinion  ;  and,  in  order  to 
verify  it,  he  set  himself  to  work  repairing  the  little  craft.  You 
would  have  supposed  his  daily  bread  depended  upon  her  be- 
ing made  seaworthy,  by  the  way  he  labored.  She  was  made 
over  from  stem  to  stern :  a  new  mast,  a  new  sail ;  and,  finally, 
scarlet  and  green  paint  were  brought  over  from  the  village, 
and  out  she  came  as  brilliant  as  a  young  paroquet.  Then 
Carrington  took  to  sailing  in  her.  Proud  of  his  handy  work, 
he  sailed  up  and  down,  over  to  the  reef,  and  up  the  inlet,  and 
even  persuaded  Melvyna  to  go  with  him  once,  accompanied 
by  the  meek  little  Sister. 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  both  learn  how  to  manage  her  ?  "  he 
said  in  his  enthusiasm.  "She's  as  easy  to  manage  as  a 
child—" 

"  And  as  easy  to  tip  over,"  replied  Melvyna,  screwing  up 
her  lips  tightly  and  shaking  her  head.  "  You  don't  catch  me 
out  in  her  again,  sure's  as  my  name's  Sawyer." 

For  Melvyna  always  remained  a  Sawyer  in  her  own  mind, 
in  spite  of  her  spouse's  name  ;  she  could  not,  indeed,  be  any- 
thing else — noblesse  oblige.  But  the  Sister,  obedient  as  usual, 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  61 

bent  her  eyes  in  turn  upon  the  ropes,  the  mast,  the  sail,  and 
the  helm,  while  Carrington,  waxing  eloquent  over  his  favorite 
science,  delivered  a  lecture  upon  their  uses,  and  made  her  ex- 
periment a  little  to  see  if  she  comprehended.  He  used  the 
simplest  words  for  her  benefit,  words  of  one  syllable,  and  un- 
consciously elevated  his  voice  somewhat,  as  though  that  would 
make  her  understand  better ;  her  wits  seemed  to  him  always 
of  the  slowest.  The  Sister  followed  his  directions,  and  imi- 
tated his  motions  with  painstaking  minuteness.  She  did 
very  well  until  a  large  porpoise  rolled  up  his  dark,  glistening 
back  close  alongside,  when,  dropping  the  sail-rope  with  a 
scream,  she  crouched  down  at  Melvyna's  feet  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  veil.  Carrington  from  that  day  could  get  no  more  pas- 
sengers for  his  paroquet  boat.  But  he  sailed  up  and  down 
alone  in  his  little  craft,  and,  when  that  amusement  palled,  he 
took  the  remainder  of  the  scarlet  and  green  paint  and  adorned 
the  shells  of  various  sea-crabs  and  other  crawling  things,  so 
that  the  little  Sister  was  met  one  afternoon  by  a  whole  proces- 
sion of  unearthly  creatures,  strangely  variegated,  proceeding 
gravely  in  single  file  down  the  beach  from  the  pen  where  they 
had  been  confined.  Keith  pointed  out  to  her,  however,  the 
probability  of  their  being  much  admired  in  their  own  circles 
as  long  as  the  hues  lasted,  and  she  was  comforted. 

They  strolled  down  the  beach  now  every  afternoon,  some- 
times two,  sometimes  three,  sometimes  four  when  Melvyna 
had  no  cooking  to  watch,  no  bread  to  bake ;  for  she  rejected 
with  scorn  the  omnipresent  hot  biscuit  of  the  South,  and  kept 
her  household  supplied  with  light  loaves  in  spite  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  yeast.  Sister  St.  Luke  had  learned  to  endure  the 
crabs,  but  she  still  fled  from  the  fiddlers  when  they  strayed 
over  from  their  towns  in  the  marsh ;  she  still  went  carefully 
around  the  great  jelly-fish  sprawling  on  the  beach,  and  re- 
garded from  a  safe  distance  the  beautiful  blue  Portuguese 
men-of-war,  stranded  unexpectedly  on  the  dangerous  shore, 
all  their  fair  voyagings  over.  Keith  collected  for  her  the  bril- 
liant sea-weeds,  little  flecks  of  color  on  the  white  sand,  and 


62  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

showed  her  their  beauties ;  he  made  her  notice  all  the  varieties 
of  shells,  enormous  conches  for  the  tritons  to  blow,  and  beds 
of  wee  pink  ovals  and  cornucopias,  plates  and  cups  for  the 
little  web-footed  fairies.  Once  he  came  upon  a  sea-bean. 

"  It  has  drifted  over  from  one  of  the  West  Indian  islands," 
he  said,  polishing  it  with  his  handkerchief — "one  of  the 
islands — let  us  say  Miraprovos — a  palmy  tropical  name,  bring- 
ing up  visions  of  a  volcanic  mountain,  vast  cliffs,  a  tangled 
gorgeous  forest,  and  the  soft  lapping  wash  of  tropical  seas. 
Is  it  not  so,  sefiora  ?  " 

But  the  sefiora  had  never  heard  of  the  West  Indian 
Islands.  Being  told,  she  replied :  "  As  you  say  it,  it  is  so. 
There  is,  then,  much  land  in  the  world  ?  " 

"If  you  keep  the  sea-bean  for  ever,  good  will  come,"  said 
Keith,  gravely  presenting  it ;  "  but,  if  after  having  once  ac- 
cepted it  you  then  lose  it,  evil  will  fall  upon  you." 

The  Sister  received  the  amulet  with  believing  reverence. 
"  I  will  lay  it  up  before  the  shrine  of  Our  Lady,"  she  said, 
carefully  placing  it  in  the  little  pocket  over  her  heart,  hidden 
among  the  folds  of  her  gown,  where  she  kept  her  most  pre- 
cious treasures — a  bead  of  a  rosary  that  had  belonged  to  some 
saint  who  lived  somewhere  some  time,  a  little  faded  prayer 
copied  in  the  handwriting  of  a  young  nun  who  had  died  some 
years  before  and  whom  she  had  dearly  loved,  and  a  list  of  her 
own  most  vicious  faults,  to  be  read  over  and  lamented  daily ; 
crying  evils  such  as  a  perverse  and  insubordinate  bearing,  a 
heart  froward  and  evil,  gluttonous  desires  of  the  flesh,  and  a 
spirit  of  murderous  rage.  These  were  her  own  ideas  of  her- 
self, written  down  at  the  convent.  Had  she  not  behaved  her- 
self perversely  to  the  Sister  Paula,  with  whom  one  should  be 
always  mild  on  account  of  the  affliction  which  had  sharpened 
her  tongue  ?  Had  she  not  wrongfully  coveted  the  cell  of  the 
novice  Felipa,  because  it  looked  out  upon  the  orange  walk  ? 
Had  she  not  gluttonously  longed  for  more  of  the  delectable 
marmalade  made  by  the  aged  Sanchita  ?  And,  worse  than 
all,  had  she  not,  in  a  spirit  of  murderous  rage,  beat  the  yellow 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  63 

cat  with  a  palm-branch  for  carrying  off  the  young  doves,  her 
especial  charge  ?  "  Ah,  my  sins  are  great  indeed,"  she  sighed 
daily  upon  her  knees,  and  smote  her  breast  with  tears. 

Keith  watched  the  sea-bean  go  into  the  little  heart-pocket 
almost  with  compunction.  Many  of  these  amulets  of  the 
sea,  gathered  during  his  winter  rambles,  had  he  bestowed 
with  formal  warning  of  their  magic  powers,  and  many  a  fair 
hand  had  taken  them,  many  a  soft  voice  had  promised  to 
keep  them  "  for  ever."  But  he  well  knew  they  would  be  mis- 
laid and  forgotten  in  a  day.  The  fair  ones  well  knew  it  too, 
and  each  knew  that  the  other  knew,  so  no  harm  was  done. 
But  this  sea-bean,  he  thought,  would  have  a  different  fate — 
laid  up  in  some  little  nook  before  the  shrine,  a  witness  to  the 
daily  prayers  of  the  simple-hearted  little  Sister.  "  I  hope  they 
may  do  it  good,"  he  thought  vaguely.  Then,  reflecting  that 
even  the  most  depraved  bean  would  not  probably  be  much 
affected  by  the  prayers,  he  laughed  off  the  fancy,  yet  did  not 
quite  like  to  think,  after  all,  that  the  prayers  were  of  no  use. 
Keith's  religion,  however,  was  in  the  primary  rocks. 

Far  down  the  beach  they  came  upon  a  wreck,  an  old  and 
long  hidden  relic  of  the  past.  The  low  sand-bluff  had  caved 
away  suddenly  and  left  a  clean  new  side,  where,  imbedded  in 
the  lower  part,  they  saw  a  ponderous  mast.  "  An  old  Span- 
ish galleon,"  said  Keith,  stooping  to  examine  the  remains.  "  I 
know  it  by  the  curious  bolts.  They  ran  ashore  here,  broad- 
side on,  in  one  of  those  sudden  tornadoes  they  have  along 
this  coast  once  in  a  while,  I  presume.  Singular !  This  was 
my  very  place  for  lying  in  the  sun  and  letting  the  blaze  scorch 
me  with  its  clear  scintillant  splendor.  I  never  imagined  I  was 
lying  on  the  bones  of  this  old  Spaniard." 

"  God  rest  the  souls  of  the  sailors  !  "  said  the  Sister,  mak- 
ing the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"  They  have  been  in — wherever  they  are,  let  us  say,  for 
about  three  centuries  now,"  observed  Keith,  "and  must  be 
used  to  it,  good  or  bad." 

"  Nay  ;  but  purgatory,  sefior." 


64  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

"  True.     I  had  forgotten  that,"  said  Keith. 

One  morning  there  came  up  a  dense,  soft,  southern-sea 
fog,  "  The  kind  you  can  cut  with  a  knife,"  Carrington  said. 
It  lasted  for  days,  sweeping  out  to  sea  at  night  on  the  land 
breeze,  and  lying  in  a  gray  bank  low  down  on  the  horizon, 
and  then  rolling  in  again  in  the  morning  enveloping  the  water 
and  the  island  in  a  thick  white  cloud  which  was  not  mist  and 
did  not  seem  damp  even,  so  freshly,  softly  salt  was  the  feeling 
it  gave  to  the  faces  that  went  abroad  in  it.  Carrington  and 
Keith,  of  course,  must  needs  be  out  in  it  every  moment  of 
the  time.  They  walked  down  the  beach  for  miles,  hearing 
the  muffled  sound  of  the  near  waves,  but  not  seeing  them. 
They  sailed  in  it  not  knowing  whither  they  went,  and  they 
drifted  out  at  sunset  and  watched  the  land  breeze  lift  it,  roll  it 
up,  and  carry  it  out  to  sea,  where  distant  ships  on  the  horizon 
line,  bound  southward,  and  nearer  ones,  sailing  northward 
with  the  Gulf  Stream,  found  themselves  enveloped  and  both- 
ered by  their  old  and  baffling  foe.  They  went  over  to  the  reef 
every  morning,  these  two,  and  bathed  in  the  fog,  coming  back 
by  sense  of  feeling,  as  it  were,  and  landing  not  infrequently  a 
mile  below  or  above  the  lighthouse ;  then  what  appetites 
they  had  for  breakfast !  And,  if  it  was  not  ready,  they  roamed 
about,  roaring  like  young  lions.  At  least  that  is  what  Mel- 
vyna  said  one  morning  when  Carrington  had  put  his  curly 
head  into  her  kitchen  door  six  times  in  the  course  of  one  half 
hour. 

The  Sister  shrank  from  the  sea  fog ;  she  had  never  seen 
one  before,  and  she  said  it  was  like  a  great  soft  white  creature 
that  came  in  on  wings,  and  brooded  over  the  earth.  "  Yes, 
beautiful,  perhaps,"  she  said  in  reply  to  Keith,  "  but  it  is  so 
strange — and — and — I  know  not  how  to  say  it — but  it  seems 
like  a  place  for  spirits  to  walk,  and  not  of  the  mortal  kind." 

They  were  wandering  down  the  beach,  where  Keith  had 
lured  her  to  listen  to  the  sound  of  the  hidden  waves.  At  that 
moment  Carrington  loomed  into  view  coming  toward  them. 
He  seemed  of  giant  size  as  he  appeared,  passed  them,  and 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  65 

disappeared  again  into  the  cloud  behind,  his  voice  sounding 
muffled  as  he  greeted  them.  The  Sister  shrank  nearer  to  her 
companion  as  the  figure  had  suddenly  made  itself  visible. 
"  Do  you  know  it  is  a  wonder  to  me  how  you  have  ever  man- 
aged to  live  so  far,"  said  Keith  smiling. 

"  But  it  was  not  far,"  said  the  little  nun.  "  Nothing  was 
ever  far  at  the  dear  convent,  but  everything  was  near,  and 
not  of  strangeness  to  make  one  afraid ;  the  garden  wall  was 
the  end.  There  we  go  not  outside,  but  our  walk  is  always 
from  the  lime-tree  to  the  white  rose-bush  and  back  again. 
Everything  we  know  there — not  roar  of  waves,  not  strong 
wind,  not  the  thick,  white  air  comes  to  give  us  fear,  but  all  is 
still  and  at  peace.  At  night  I  dream  of  the  organ,  and  of  the 
orange-trees,  and  of  the  doves.  I  wake,  and  hear  only  the 
sound  of  the  great  water  below." 

"  You  will  go  back,"  said  Keith. 

He  had  begun  to  pity  her  lately,  for  her  longing  was  deeper 
than  he  had  supposed.  It  had  its  roots  in  her  very  being.  He 
had  studied  her  and  found  it  so. 

"  She  will  die  of  pure  homesickness  if  she  stays  here  much 
longer,"  he  said  to  Carrington.  "  What  do  you  think  of  our 
writing  down  to  that  old  convent  and  offering — of  course  un- 
known to  her — to  pay  the  little  she  costs  them,  if  they  will 
take  her  back  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  Carrington.     "  Go  ahead." 

He  was  making  a  larger  sail  for  his  paroquet  boat.  "  If 
none  of  you  will  go  out  in  her,  I  might  as  well  have  all  the 
sport  I  can,"  he  said. 

"  Sport  to  consist  in  being  swamped  ?  "  Keith  asked. 

"  By  no  means,  croaker.  Sport  to  consist  in  shooting  over 
the  water  like  a  rocket ;  I  sitting  on  the  tilted  edge,  watching 
the  waves,  the  winds,  and  the  clouds,  and  hearing  the  water 
sing  as  we  rush  along." 

Keith  took  counsel  with  no  one  else,  not  even  with  Melvy- 
na,  but  presently  he  wrote  his  letter  and  carried  it  himself 
over  to  the  village  to  mail.  He  did  good  deeds  like  that  once 


66  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

in  a  while,  "  to  help  humanity,"  he  said.  They  were  tangible 
always ;  like  the  primary  rocks. 

At  length  one  evening  the  fog  rolled  out  to  sea  for  good 
and  all,  at  least  as  far  as  that  shore  was  concerned.  In  the 
morning  there  stood  the  lighthouse,  and  the  island,  and  the 
reef,  just  the  same  as  ever.  They  had  almost  expected  to 
see  them  altered,  melted  a  little. 

"  Let  us  go  over  to  the  reef,  all  of  us,  and  spend  the  day," 
said  Keith.  "  It  will  do  us  good  to  breathe  the  clear  air,  and 
feel  the  brilliant,  dry,  hot  sunshine  again." 

"  Hear  the  man  !  "  said  Melvyna  laughing.  "  After  trying 
to  persuade  us  all  those  days  that  he  liked  that  sticky  fog 
too ! " 

"  Mme.  Gonsalvez,  we  like  a  lily ;  but  is  that  any  reason 
why  we  may  not  also  like  a  rose  ?  " 

"Neither  of  'em  grows  on  this  beach  as  I'm  aware  of," 
answered  Melvyna  dryly. 

Then  Carrington  put  in  his  voice,  and  carried  the  day. 
Women  never  resisted  Carrington  long,  but  yielded  almost 
unconsciously  to  the  influence  of  his  height  and  his  strength, 
and  his  strong,  hearty  will.  A  subtiler  influence  over  them, 
however,  would  have  waked  resistance,  and  Carrington  him- 
self would  have  been  conquered  far  sooner  (and  was  con- 
quered later)  by  one  who  remained  unswayed  by  those  in- 
fluences, to  which  others  paid  involuntary  obeisance. 

Pedro  had  gone  to  the  village  for  his  supplies  and  his  two 
days  of  mild  Minorcan  dissipation,  and  Melvyna,  beguiled  and 
cajoled  by  the  chaffing  of  the  two  young  men,  at  last  con- 
sented, and  not  only  packed  the  lunch-basket  with  careful 
hand,  but  even  donned  for  the  occasion  her  "  best  bonnet,"  a 
structure  trimmed  in  Vermont  seven  years  before  by  the  ex- 
perienced hand  of  Miss  Althy  Spears,  the  village  milliner,  who 
had  adorned  it  with  a  durable  green  ribbon  and  a  vigorous 
wreath  of  artificial  flowers.  Thus  helmeted,  Mme.  Gonsalvez 
presided  at  the  stern  of  the  boat  with  great  dignity.  For 
they  were  in  the  safe,  well-appointed  little  yacht  belonging  to 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  67 

the  two  gentlemen,  the  daring  paroquet  having  been  left  at 
home  tied  to  the  last  of  a  low  heap  of  rocks  that  jutted  out 
into  the  water  in  front  of  the  lighthouse,  the  only  remains  of 
the  old  stone  dock  built  by  the  Spaniards  long  before.  Sister 
St.  Luke  was  with  them  of  course,  gentle  and  frightened  as 
usual.  Her  breath  came  quickly  as  they  neared  the  reef,  and 
Carrington  with  a  sure  hand  guided  the  little  craft  outside 
into  the  surf,  and,  rounding  a  point,  landed  them  safely  in  a 
miniature  harbor  he  had  noted  there.  Keith  had  counted  the 
days,  and  felt  sure  that  the  answer  from  the  convent  would 
come  soon.  His  offer — for  he  had  made  it  his  alone  without 
Carrington's  aid — had  been  liberal ;  there  could  be  but  one  re- 
ply. The  little  Sister  would  soon  go  back  to  the  lime-tree,  the 
white  rose-bush,  the  doves,  the  old  organ  that  was  "  so  large  " 
— all  the  quiet  routine  of  the  life  she  loved  so  well ;  and  they 
would  see  her  small  oval  face  and  timid  dark  eyes  no  more. 
So  he  took  her  for  a  last  walk  down  the  reef,  while  Melvyna 
made  coffee,  and  Carrington,  having  noticed  a  dark  line  float- 
ing on  the  water,  immediately  went  out  in  his  boat,  of  course, 
to  see  what  it  was. 

The  reef  had  its  high  backbone,  like  the  island.  Some 
day  it  would  be  the  island,  with  another  reef  outside,  and  the 
lighthouse  beach  would  belong  to  the  mainland.  Down  the 
stretch  of  sand  toward  the  sea  the  pelicans  stood  in  rows, 
toeing  a  mark,  solemn  and  heavy,  by  the  hundreds — a  count- 
less number — for  the  reef  was  their  gathering-place. 

"  They  are  holding  a  conclave,"  said  Keith.  "  That  old 
fellow  has  the  floor.  See  him  wag  his  head." 

In  and  out  among  the  pelicans,  and  paying  no  attention 
to  them  and  their  conclave,  sped  the  sickle-bill  curlews,  ac- 
tively probing  everywhere  with  their  long,  grotesque,  sickle- 
shaped  bills ;  and  woe  be  to  the  burrowing  things  that  came 
in  their  way !  The  red-beaked  oyster-bird  flew  by,  and  close 
down  to  the  sea  skimmed  the  razor-bill  shear-water,  with  his 
head  bent  forward  and  his  feet  tilted  up,  just  grazing  the 
water  with  his  open  bill  as  he  flew,  and  leaving  a  shining  mark 


68  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

behind,  as  though  he  held  a  pencil  in  his  mouth  and  was  run- 
ning a  line.  The  lazy  gulls,  who  had  no  work  to  do,  and 
would  not  have  done  it  if  they  had,  rode  at  ease  on  the  little 
wavelets  close  in  shore.  The  Sister,  being  asked,  confessed 
that  she  liked  the  lazy  gulls  best.  Being  pressed  to  say  why,  she 
thought  it  was  because  they  were  more  like  the  white  doves 
that  sat  on  the  old  stone  well-curb  in  the  convent  garden. 

Keith  had  always  maintained  that  he  liked  to  talk  to  wo- 
men. He  said  that  the  talk  of  any  woman  was  more  piquant 
than  the  conversation  of  the  most  brilliant  men.  There  was 
only  one  obstacle :  the  absolute  inability  of  the  sex  to  be  sin- 
cere, or  to  tell  the  truth,  for  ten  consecutive  minutes.  To- 
day, however,  as  he  wandered  to  and  fro  whither  he  would  on 
the  reef,  he  also  wandered  to  and  fro  whither  he  would  in  the 
mind,  and  the  absolutely  truthful  mind  too,  of  a  woman.  Yet 
he  found  it  dull !  He  sighed  to  himself,  but  was  obliged  to 
acknowledge  that  it  was  dull.  The  lime-tree,  the  organ,  the 
Sisters,  the  Sisters,  the  lime-tree,  the  organ ;  it  grew  monoto- 
nous after  a  while.  Yet  he  held  his  post,  for  the  sake  of  the 
old  theory,  until  the  high  voice  of  Melvyna  called  them  back 
to  the  little  fire  on  the  beach  and  the  white  cloth  spread  with 
her  best  dainties.  They  saw  Carrington  sailing  in  with  an 
excited  air,  and  presently  he  brought  the  boat  into  the  cove 
and  dragged  ashore  his  prize,  towed  behind — nothing  less 
than  a  large  shark,  wounded,  dead,  after  a  struggle  with  some 
other  marine  monster,  a  sword-fish  probably.  "  A  man- 
eater,"  announced  the  captor.  "  Look  at  him,  will  you  ? 
Look  at  him,  Miss  Luke  !  " 

But  Miss  Luke  went  far  away,  and  would  not  look.  In 
truth  he  was  an  ugly  creature  ;  even  Melvyna  kept  a.t  a  safe 
distance.  But  the  two  men  noted  all  his  points  ;  they  mea- 
sured him  carefully ;  they  turned  him  over,  and  discussed  him 
generally  in  that  closely  confined  and  exhaustive  way  which 
marks  the  masculine  mind.  Set  two  women  to  discussing  a 
shark,  or  even  the  most  lovely  little  brook-trout,  if  you  please, 
and  see  how  far  off  they  will  be  in  five  minutes  ! 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  69 

But  the  lunch  was  tempting,  and  finally  its  discussion 
called  them  away  even  from  that  of  the  shark.  And  then 
they  all  sailed  homeward  over  the  green  and  blue  water,  while 
the  white  sand-hills  shone  silvery  before  them,  and  then  turned 
red  in  the  sunset.  That  night  the  moon  was  at  its  full.  Keith 
went  out  and  strolled  up  and  down  on  the  beach.  Carrington 
was  playing  fox-and-goose  with  Mme.  Gonsalvez  on  a  board 
he  had  good-naturedly  constructed  for  her  entertainment  when 
she  confessed  one  day  to  a  youthful  fondness  for  that  exciting 
game.  Up  stairs  gleamed  the  little  Sister's  light.  "  Saying 
her  prayers  with  her  lips,  but  thinking  all  the  time  of  that  old 
convent,"  said  the  stroller  to  himself,  half  scornfully.  And 
he  said  the  truth. 

The  sea  was  still  and  radiant ;  hardly  more  than  a  ripple 
broke  at  his  feet ;  the  tide  was  out,  and  the  broad  beach  sil- 
very and  fresh.  "  At  home  they  are  buried  in  snow,"  he 
thought,  "and  the  wind  is  whistling  around  their  double 
windows."  And  then  he  stretched  himself  on  the  sand,  and 
lay  looking  upward  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  night,  bathed  in 
the  moonlight,  and  listening  dreamily  to  the  soft  sound  of  the 
water  as  it  returned  slowly,  slowly  back  from  the  African 
coast.  He  thought  many  thoughts,  and  deep  ones  too,  and 
at  last  he  was  so  far  away  on  ideal  heights,  that,  coming  home 
after  midnight,  it  was  no  wonder  if,  half  unconsciously,  he 
felt  himself  above  the  others  ;  especially  when  he  passed  the 
little  Sister's  closed  door,  and  thought,  smiling  not  unkindly, 
how  simple  she  was. 

The  next  morning  the  two  men  went  off  in  their  boat  again 
for  the  day,  this  time  alone.  There  were  still  a  few  more 
questions  to  settle  about  that  shark,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  they 
both  liked  a  good  day  of  unencumbered  sailing  better  than 
anything  else. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Melvyna,  happening 
to  look  out  of  the  door,  saw  a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand  low  down  on  the  horizon  line  of  the  sea.  Something 
made  her  stand  and  watch  it  for  a  few  moments.  Then, 


yo  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

"  Miss  Luke  !  Miss  Luke  !  Miss  Luke  !  Miss  Luke !  "  she 
called  quickly.  Down  came  the  little  Sister,  startled  at  the 
cry,  her  lace-work  still  in  her  hand. 

"  Look !  "  said  Melvyna. 

The  Sister  looked,  and  this  is  what  she  saw  :  a  line  white 
as  milk  coming  toward  them  on  the  water,  and  behind  it  a 
blackness. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Atornader,"  said  Melvyna  with  white  lips.  "I've  only 
seen  one,  and  then  I  was  over  in  the  town ;  but  it's  awful ! 
We  must  run  back  to  the  thicket."  Seizing  her  companion's 
arm,  the  strong  Northern  woman  hurried  her  across  the  sand, 
through  the  belt  of  sand-hills,  and  into  the  thicket,  where  they 
crouched  on  its  far  side  close  down  under  the  projecting 
backbone.  "  The  bushes  will  break  the  sand,  and  the  ridge 
will  keep  us  from  being  buried  in  it,"  she  said.  "  I  dursn't 
stay  on  the  shore,  for  the  water'll  rise." 

The  words  were  hardly  spoken  before  the  tornado  was 
upon  them,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  the  flying  sand,  so  that 
they  could  hardly  breathe.  Half  choked,  they  beat  with  their 
hands  before  them  to  catch  a  breath.  Then  came  a  roar,  and 
for  an  instant,  distant  as  they  were,  they  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  crest  of  the  great  wave  that  followed  the  whirlwind.  It 
seemed  to  them  mountain-high,  and  ready  to  ingulf  the  entire 
land.  With  a  rushing  sound  it  plunged  over  the  keeper's 
house,  broke  against  the  lower  story  of  the  tower,  hissed 
across  the  sand,  swallowed  the  sand-hills,  and  swept  to  their 
very  feet,  then  sullenly  receded  with  slow,  angry  muttering. 
A  gale  of  wind  came  next,  singularly  enough  from  another 
direction,  as  if  to  restore  the  equipoise  of  the  atmosphere. 
But  the  tornado  had  gone  on  inland,  where  there  were  trees 
to  uproot,  and  houses  to  destroy,  and  much  finer  entertain- 
ment generally. 

As  soon  as  they  could  speak,  "  Where  are  the  two  out  in 
the  sail-boat  ?  "  asked  the  Sister. 

"God  knows!"   answered  Melvyna.     "The  last  time  I 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  ?1 

noticed  their  sail  they  were  about  a  mile  outside  of  the 
reef." 

"  I  will  go  and  see." 

"  Go   and  see !     Are  you  crazy  ?     You  can    never  get 
through  that  water." 

"  The  saints  would  help  me,  I  think,"  said  the  little  Sister. 

She  had  risen,  and  now  stood  regarding  the  watery  waste 
with  the  usual  timid  look  in  her  gentle  eyes.  Then  she  stepped 
forward  with  her  uncertain  tread,  and  before  the  woman  by 
her  side  comprehended  her  purpose  she  was  gone,  ankle-deep 
in  the  tide,  knee-deep,  and  finally  wading  across  the  sand  up 
to  her  waist  in  water  toward  the  lighthouse.  The  great  wave 
was  no  deeper,  however,  even  there.  She  waded  to  the  door 
of  the  tower,  opened  it  with  difficulty,  climbed  the  stairway, 
and  gained  the  light-room,  where  the  glass  of  the  windows 
was  all  shattered,  and  the  little  chamber  half  full  of  the  dead 
bodies  of  birds,  swept  along  by  the  whirlwind  and  dashed 
against  the  tower,  none  of  them  falling  to  the  ground  or  los- 
ing an  inch  of  their  level  in  the  air  as  they  sped  onward,  until 
they  struck  against  some  high  object,  which  broke  their  mad 
and  awful  journey.  Holding  on  by  the  shattered  casement, 
Sister  St.  Luke  gazed  out  to  sea.  The  wind  was  blowing 
fiercely,  and  the  waves  were  lashed  to  fury.  The  sky  was 
inky  black.  The  reef  was  under  water,  save  one  high  knob 
of  its  backbone,  and  to  that  two  dark  objects  were  clinging. 
Farther  down  she  saw  the  wreck  of  the  boat  driving  before 
the  gale.  Pedro  was  over  in  the  village ;  the  tide  was  coming 
in  over  the  high  sea,  and  night  was  approaching.  She  walked 
quickly  down  the  rough  stone  stairs,  stepped  into  the  water 
again,  and  waded  across  where  the  paroquet  boat  had  been 
driven  against  the  wall  of  the  house,  bailed  it  out  with  one 
of  Melvyna's  pans,  and  then,  climbing  in  from  the  window 
of  the  sitting-room,  she  hoisted  the  sail,  and  in  a  moment 
was  out  on  the  dark  sea. 

Melvyna  had  ascended  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  when 
the  sail  came  into  view  beyond  the  house  she  fell  down  on 


72  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

her  knees  and  began  to  pray  aloud :  "  O  Lord,  save  her ; 
save  the  lamb  !  She  don't  know  what's  she  is  doing,  Lord. 
She's  as  simple  as  a  baby.  Oh,  save  her,  out  on  that  roaring 
sea  !  Good  Lord,  good  Lord,  deliver  her ! "  Fragments  of 
prayers  she  had  heard  in  her  prayer-meeting  days  came  con- 
fusedly back  into  her  mind,  and  she  repeated  them  all  again 
and  again,  wringing  her  hands  as  she  saw  the  little  craft  tilt 
far  over  under  its  all  too  large  sail,  so  that  several  times,  in 
the  hollows  of  the  waves,  she  thought  it  was  gone.  The 
wind  was  blowing  hard  but  steadily,  and  in  a  direction  that 
carried  the  boat  straight  toward  the  reef ;  no  tacks  were  ne- 
cessary, no  change  of  course;  the  black-robed  little  figure 
simply  held  the  sail-rope,  and  the  paroquet  drove  on.  The 
two  clinging  to  the  rock,  bruised,  exhausted,  with  the  waves 
rising  and  falling  around  them,  did  not  see  the  boat  until  it 
was  close  upon  them. 

"  By  the  great  heavens  !  "  said  Keith. 

His  face  was  pallid  and  rigid,  and  there  was  a  ghastly  cut 
across  his  forehead,  the  work  of  the  sharp-edged  rock.  The 
next  moment  he  was  on  board,  brought  the  boat  round  just  in 
time,  and  helped  in  Carrington,  whose  right  arm  was  injured. 

"  You  have  saved  our  lives,  sefiora,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"  By  Jove,  yes,"  said  Carrington.  "  We  could  not  have 
stood  it  long,  and  night  was  coming."  Then  they  gave  all 
their  attention  to  the  hazardous  start. 

Sister  St.  Luke  remained  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  done  anything  remarkable.  Her  black  gown  was  spoiled, 
which  was  a  pity,  and  she  knew  of  a  balm  which  was  easily 
compounded  and  which  would  heal  their  bruises.  Did  they 
think  Melvyna  had  come  back  to  the  house  yet  ?  And  did 
they  know  that  all  her  dishes  were  broken — yes,  even  the  cups 
with  the  red  flowers  on  the  border  ?  Then  she  grew  timorous 
again,  and  hid  her  face  from  the  sight  of  the  waves. 

Keith  said  not  a  word,  but  sailed  the  boat,  and  it  was  a 
wild  and  dangerous  voyage  they  made,  tacking  up  and  down 
in  the  gayly  painted  little  craft,  that  seemed  like  a  toy  on  that 


SISTER  ST.  LUKE.  73 

angry  water.  Once  Carrington  took  the  little  Sister's  hand  in 
his,  and  pressed  his  lips  fervently  upon  it.  She  had  never  had 
her  hand  kissed  before,  and  looked  at  him,  then  at  the  place, 
with  a  vague  surprise,  which  soon  faded,  however,  into  the 
old  fear  of  the  wind.  It  was  night  when  at  last  they  reached 
the  lighthouse ;  but  during  the  last  two  tacks  they  had  a  light 
from  the  window  to  guide  them ;  and  when  nearly  in  they  saw 
the  lantern  shining  out  from  the  shattered  windows  of  the 
tower  in  a  fitful,  surprised  sort  of  way,  for  Melvyna  had  re- 
turned, and,  with  the  true  spirit  of  a  Yankee,  had  immediately 
gone  to  work  at  the  ruins. 

The  only  sign  of  emotion  she  gave  was  to  Keith.  "  I  saw 
it  all,"  she  said.  "  That  child  went  right  out  after  you,  in  that 
terrible  wind,  as  natural  and  as  quiet  as  if  she  was  only  going 
across  the  room.  And  she  so  timid  a  fly  could  frighten  her ! 
Mark  my  words,  Mr.  Keith,  the  good  Lord  helped  her  to  do 
it !  And  I'll  go  to  that  new  mission  chapel  over  in  the  town 
every  Sunday  after  this,  as  sure's  my  name  is  Sawyer !  "  She 
ceased  abruptly,  and,  going  into  her  kitchen,  slammed  the 
door  behind  her.  Emotion  with  Melvyna  took  the  form  of 
roughness. 

Sister  St.  Luke  went  joyfully  back  to  her  convent  the  next 
day,  for  Pedro,  when  he  returned,  brought  the  letter,  written, 
as  Keith  had  directed,  in  the  style  of  an  affectionate  invitation. 
The  little  nun  wept  for  happiness  when  she  read  it.  "  You 
see  how  they  love  me — love  me  as  I  love  them,"  she  repeated 
with  innocent  triumph  again  and  again. 

"  It  is  all  we  can  do,"  said  Keith.  "  She  could  not  be 
happy  anywhere  else,  and  with  the  money  behind  her  she  will 
not  be  neglected.  Besides,  I  really  believe  they  do  love  her. 
The  sending  her  up  here  was  probably  the  result  of  some  out- 
side dictation." 

Carrington,  however,  was  dissatisfied.  "  A  pretty  return 
we  make  for  our  saved  lives ! "  he  said.  "  I  hate  .ingratitude." 
For  Carrington  was  half  disposed  now  to  fall  in  love  with  his 
preserver. 


74  SISTER  ST.  LUKE. 

But  Keith  stood  firm. 

"Addios,"  said  the  little  Sister,  as  Pedro's  boat  received 
her.  Her  face  had  lighted  so  with  joy  and  glad  anticipation 
that  they  hardly  knew  her.  "  I  wish  you  could  to  the  convent 
go  with  me,"  she  said  earnestly  to  the  two  young  men.  "  I 
am  sure  you  would  like  it."  Then,  as  the  boat  turned  the 
point,  "  I  am  sure  you  would  like  it,"  she  called  back,  crossing 
her  hands  on  her  breast.  "  It  is  very  heavenly  there — very 
heavenly." 

That  was  the  last  they  saw  of  her. 

Carrington  sent  down  the  next  winter  from  New  York  a 
large  silver  crucifix,  superbly  embossed  and  ornamented.  It 
was  placed  on  the  high  altar  of  the  convent,  and  much  ad- 
mired and  reverenced  by  all  the  nuns.  Sister  St.  Luke  ad- 
mired it  too.  She  spoke  of  the  island  occasionally,  but  she 
did  not  tell  the  story  of  the  rescue.  She  never  thought  of  it. 
Therefore,  in  the  matter  of  the  crucifix,  the  belief  was  that 
a  special  grace  had  touched  the  young  man's  heart.  And 
prayers  were  ordered  for  him.  Sister  St.  Luke  tended  her 
doves,  and  at  the  hour  of  meditation  paced  to  and  fro  between 
the  lime-tree  and  the  bush  of  white  roses.  When  she  was 
thirty  years  old  her  cup  was  full,  for  then  she  was  permitted 
to  take  lessons  and  play  a  little  upon  the  old  organ. 

Melvyna  went  every  Sunday  to  the  bare,  struggling  little 
Presbyterian  mission  over  in  the  town,  and  she  remains  to  this 
day  a  Sawyer. 

But  Keith  remembered.  He  bares  his  head  silently  in 
reverence  to  all  womanhood,  and  curbs  his  cynicism  as  best 
he  can,  for  the  sake  of  the  little  Sister— the  sweet  little  Sister 
St.  Luke. 


MISS  ELISABETHA. 


In  yonder  homestead,  wreathed  with  bounteous  vines, 
A  lonely  woman  dwells,  whose  wandering  feet 
Pause  oft  amid  one  chamber's  calm  retreat, 
Where  an  old  mirror  from  its  quaint  frame  shines. 
And  here,  soft  wrought  in  memory's  vague  designs, 
Dim  semblances  her  wistful  gaze  will  greet 
Of  lost  ones  that  inthrall  phantasmally  sweet 
The  mirror's  luminous  quietude  enshrines. 

But  unto  her  these  dubious  forms  that  pass 
With  shadowy  majesty  or  dreamy  grace, 
Wear  nothing  of  ghostliness  in  mien  or  guise. 
The  only  ghost  that  haunts  this  glimmering  glass 
Carries  the  sad  reality  in  its  face 
Of  her  own  haggard  cheeks  and  desolate  eyes  ! 

EDGAR  FAWCETT. 


OVERLOOKING  the  tide-water  river  stands  an  old  house, 
gleaming  white  in  the  soft  moonlight ;  the  fragrance  of  tropic 
flowers  floats  out  to  sea  on  the  land-breeze,  coming  at  sunset 
over  the  pine-barrens  to  take  the  place  of  the  ocean  winds  that 
have  blown  all  day  long,  bringing  in  the  salt  freshness  to  do 
battle  with  the  hot  shafts  of  the  sun  and  conquer  them.  The 
side  of  the  house  toward  the  river  shows  stone  arches,  door- 
less,  opening  into  a  hall ;  beyond  is  a  large  room,  lighted  by 
two  candles  placed  on  an  old-fashioned  piano ;  and  full  in 
their  yellow  radiance  sits  Miss  Elisabetha,  playing,  with  clear, 
measured  touch,  an  old-time  minuet.  The  light  falls  upon 
her  face,  with  its  sharp,  high-curved  features,  pale-blue  eyes, 
and  the  three  thin  curls  of  blonde  hair  on  each  side.  She  is 
not  young,  our  Elisabetha :  the  tall,  spare  form,  stiffly  erect, 
the  little  wisp  of  hair  behind  ceremoniously  braided  and 


76  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

adorned  with  a  high  comb,  the  long,  thin  hands,  with  the  tell- 
tale wrist-bones  prominent  as  she  plays,  and  the  fine  network 
of  wrinkles  over  her  pellucid,  colorless  cheeks,  tell  this.  But 
the  boy  who  listens  sees  it  not ;  to  him  she  is  a  St.  Cecilia, 
and  the  gates  of  heaven  open  as  she  plays.  He  leans  his 
head  against  the  piano,  and  his  thoughts  are  lost  in  melody ; 
they  do  not  take  the  form  of  words,  but  sway  to  and  fro  with 
the  swell  and  the  ebb  of  the  music.  If  you  should  ask  him, 
he  could  not  express  what  he  feels,  for  his  is  no  analytical 
mind ;  attempt  to  explain  it  to  him,  and  very  likely  he  would 
fall  asleep  before  your  eyes.  Miss  Elisabetha  plays  well — in 
a  prim,  old-fashioned  way,  but  yet  well ;  the  ancient  piano 
has  lost  its  strength,  but  its  tones  are  still  sweet,  and  the  mis- 
tress humors  its  failings.  She  tunes  it  herself,  protects  its 
strings  from  the  sea-damps,  dusts  it  carefully,  and  has  em- 
broidered for  it  a  cover  in  cross-stitch,  yellow  tulips  growing 
in  straight  rows  out  of  a  blue  ground — an  heirloom  pattern 
brought  from  Holland.  Yet  entire  happiness  can  not  be  ours 
in  this  world,  and  Miss  Elisabetha  sometimes  catches  herself 
thinking  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  use  E  flat  once  more  ; 
but  the  piano's  E  flat  is  hopelessly  gone. 

"  Is  not  that  enough  for  this  evening,  Theodore  ?  "  said 
Miss  Elisabetha,  closing  the  manuscript  music-book,  whose 
delicate  little  pen-and-ink  notes  were  fading  away  with  age. 

"Oh,  no,  dear  aunt;  sing  for  me,  please,  'The  Proud 
Ladye.'  " 

And  so  the  piano  sounded  forth  again  in  a  prim  melody, 
and  the  thin  voice  began  the  ballad  of  the  knight,  who,  scorned 
by  his  lady-love,  went  to  the  wars  with  her  veil  bound  on  his 
heart ;  he  dies  on  the  field,  but  a  dove  bears  back  the  veil  to 
the  Proud  Ladye,  who  straightway  falls  "  a-weeping  and  a- 
weeping  till  she  weeps  her  life  away."  The  boy  who  listens 
is  a  slender  stripling,  with  brown  eyes,  and  a  mass  of  brown 
curls  tossed  back  from  a  broad,  low  forehead ;  he  has  the  out- 
lines of  a  Greek,  and  a  dark,  silken  fringe  just  borders  his 
boyish  mouth.  He  is  dressed  in  a  simple  suit  of  dark-blue 


MISS  ELISABETHA. 


77 


cotton  jacket  and  trousers,  the  broad  white  collar  turned  down, 
revealing  his  round  young  throat ;  on  his  slender  feet  he  wears 
snowy  stockings,  knitted  by  Miss  Elisabetha's  own  hands,  and 
over  them  a  low  slipper  of  untanned  leather.  His  brown 
hands  are  clasped  over  one  knee,  the  taper  fingers  and  almond- 
shaped  nails  betraying  the  artistic  temperament — a  sign  which 
is  confirmed  by  the  unusually  long,  slender  line  of  the  eye- 
brows, curving  down  almost  to  the  cheeks. 

"  A- weeping  and  a- weeping  till  she  weeps  her  life  away," 
sang  Miss  Elisabetha,  her  voice  in  soft  diminuendo  to  express 
the  mournful  end  of  the  Proud  Ladye.  Then,  closing  the 
piano  carefully,  and  adjusting  the  tulip-bordered  cover,  she 
extinguished  the  candles,  and  the  two  went  out  under  the 
open  arches,  where  chairs  stood  ready  for  them  nightly.  The 
tide-water  river— the  Warra — flowed  by,  the  moon-path  shin- 
ing goldenly  across  it;  up  in  the  north  palmettos  stood  in 
little  groups  alongshore,  with  the  single  feathery  pine-trees  of 
the  barrens  coming  down  to  meet  them ;  in  the  south  shone 
the  long  lagoon,  with  its  low  islands,  while  opposite  lay  the 
slender  point  of  the  mainland,  fifteen  miles  in  length,  the 
Warra  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the  ocean ;  its  white 
sand-ridges  gleamed  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  two  could  hear 
the  sound  of  the  waves  on  its  outer  beach. 

"  It  is  so  beautiful,"  said  the  boy,  his  dreamy  eyes  follow- 
ing the  silver  line  of  the  lagoon. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miss  Elisabetha,  "  but  we  have  no  time  to 
waste,  Theodore.  Bring  your  guitar  and  let  me  hear  you 
sing  that  romanza  again ;  remember  the  pauses — three  beats 
to  the  measure." 

Then  sweetly  sounded  forth  the  soft  tenor  voice,  singing 
an  old  French  romanza,  full  of  little  quavers,  and  falls,  and 
turns,  which  the  boy  involuntarily  slurred  into  something  like 
naturalness,  or  gave  staccato  as  the  mocking-bird  throws  out 
his  shower  of  short,  round  notes.  But  Miss  Elisabetha  al- 
lowed no  such  license :  had  she  not  learned  that  very  romanza 
from  Monsieur  Vocard  himself  forty  years  before  ?  and  had 


78  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

he  not  carefully  taught  her  every  one  of  those  little  turns  and 
quavers  ?  Taking  the  guitar  from  Theodore's  hand,  she  exe- 
cuted all  the  flourishes  slowly  and  precisely,  making  him  fol- 
low her,  note  for  note.  Then  he  must  sing  it  all  over  again 
while  she  beat  the  time  with  her  long,  slender  foot,  incased 
in  a  black-silk  slipper  of  her  own  making.  The  ladies  of  the 
Daarg  family  always  wore  slippers — the  heavy-sounding  mod- 
ern boot  they  considered  a  structure  suitable  only  for  persons 
of  plebeian  origin.  A  lady  should  not  even  step  perceptibly ; 
she  should  glide. 

"  Miss  'Lisabeet,  de  teas'  is  ready.  Bress  de  chile,  how 
sweet  he  sings  to-night !  Mos'  like  de  mock-bird's  self,  Mass' 
Doro." 

So  spoke  old  Viny,  the  one  servant  of  the  house,  a  broad- 
shouldered,  jet-black,  comfortable  creature,  with  her  gray 
wool  peeping  from  beneath  a  gay  turban.  She  had  belonged 
to  Doro's  Spanish  mother,  but,  when  Miss  Elisabetha  came 
South  to  take  the  house  and  care  for  the  orphan-boy,  she  had 
purchased  the  old  woman,  and  set  her  free  immediately. 

"  It  don't  make  naw  difference  as  I  can  see,  Miss  'Lisa- 
beet,"  said  Viny,  when  the  new  mistress  carefully  explained 
to  her  that  she  was  a  free  agent  from  that  time  forth.  "  'Pears 
harnsome  in  you  to  do  it,  but  it  arn't  likely  I'll  leabe  my  chile, 
my  Doro-boy,  long  as  I  lib — is  it,  now  ?  When  I  die,  he'll 
have  ole  Viny  burred  nice,  wid  de  priests,  an'  de  candles,  an' 
de  singing,  an'  all." 

"  Replace  your  guitar,  Theodore,"  said  Miss  Elisabetha, 
rising,  "  and  then  walk  to  and  fro  between  here  and  the  gate 
ten  times.  Walk  briskly,  and  keep  your  mouth  shut ;  after 
singing  you  should  always  guard  against  the  damps." 

The  boy  obeyed  in  his  dreamy  way,  pacing  down  the  white 
path,  made  hard  with  pounded  oyster-shells,  to  the  high  stone 
wall.  The  old  iron-clamped  gate,  which  once  hung  between 
the  two  pomegranate-topped  pillars,  was  gone ;  for  years  it 
had  leaned  tottering  half  across  the  entrance-way,  threaten- 
ing to  brain  every  comer,  but  Miss  Elisabetha  had  ordered  its 


MISS  ELISABETHA. 


79 


removal  in  the  twinkling  of  her  Northern  eye,  and  in  its  place 
now  hung  a  neat,  incongruous  little  wicket,  whose  latch  was 
a  standing  bone  of  contention  between  the  mistress  and  the 
entire  colored  population  of  the  small  village. 

"  Go  back  and  latch  the  gate,"  was  her  constantly  repeated 
order ;  "  the  cows  might  enter  and  injure  the  garden." 

"  But  th'  arn't  no  cows,  Miss  'Lisabeet." 

"  There  should  be,  then,"  the  ancient  maiden  would  reply, 
severely.  "  Grass  would  grow  with  a  little  care  and  labor  ; 
look  at  our  pasture.  You  are  much  too  indolent,  good  peo- 
ple!" 

Theodore  stood  leaning  over  the  little  gate,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  white  sand-hills  across  the  Warra ;  he  was  listening  to 
the  waves  on  the  outer  beach. 

"  Theodore,  Theodore ! "  called  Miss  Elisabetha's  voice, 
"  do  not  stand,  but  pace  to  and  fro ;  and  be  sure  and  keep 
your  mouth  closed." 

Mechanically  the  boy  obeyed,  but  his  thoughts  were  fol- 
lowing the  sound  of  the  water.  Following  a  sound  ?  Yes. 
Sounds  were  to  him  a  language,  and  he  held  converse  with 
the  surf,  the  winds,  the  rustling  marsh-grass,  and  the  sighing 
pines  of  the  barrens.  The  tale  of  the  steps  completed,  he  re- 
entered  the  house,  and,  following  the  light,  went  into  a  long, 
narrow  room,  one  of  three  which,  built  out  behind  the  main 
body  of  the  house,  formed  with  its  back-wall  a  square,  sur- 
rounding a  little  courtyard,  in  whose  center  stood  the  well,  a 
ruined  fountain,  rose-  and  myrtle-bushes,  and  two  ancient  fig- 
trees,  dwarfed  and  gnarled.  Miss  Elisabetha  was  standing  at 
the  head  of  the  table ;  before  her  was  a  plate  containing  three 
small  slices  of  dry  toast,  crisp  and  brown,  and  a  decanter  of 
orange-wine,  made  by  her  own  hands.  One  slice  of  the  toast 
was  for  herself,  two  were  for  the  boy,  who  was  still  supposed 
to  be  growing ;  a  Northerner  would  have  said  that  he  was 
over  twenty,  but  Spanish  blood  hastens  life,  and  Teodoro  in 
years  was  actually  not  yet  eighteen.  In  mind  he  was  still 
younger,  thanks  to  Miss  Elisabetha's  care  and  strict  control. 


8o  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

It  had  never  even  occurred  to  him  that  he  need  not  so  abso- 
lutely obey  her ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  neither  had  it  occurred 
to  her.  Doro  ate  his  simple  supper  standing — the  Daarg 
family  never  sat  down  gluttonously  to  supper,  but  browsed 
lightly  on  some  delicate  fragments,  moving  about  and  chatting 
meanwhile  as  though  half  forgetting  they  were  eating  at  all. 
Then  Miss  Elisabetha  refilled  his  little  glass,  watched  him 
drink  the  clear  amber  liquid  to  the  last  drop,  and  bade  him 
good  night  in  her  even  voice.  He  turned  at  the  door  and 
made  her  a  formal  bow,  not  without  grace  ;  she  had  carefully 
taught  him  this  salutation,  and  required  it  of  him  every  night. 

"  I  wish  you  a  blessed  rest,  Theodore,"  she  said,  courtesy- 
ing  in  reply ;  "  do  not  keep  the  light  burning." 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  the  ancient  maiden  glided  out  of 
her  chamber,  clad  in  a  long  frilled  wrapper,  the  three  curls  in 
papers  on  each  side  of  her  head,  she  saw  no  gleam  from 
under  the  low  door  of  the  little  room  across  the  hall ;  she  lis- 
tened, but  there  was  no  sound,  and,  satisfied,  she  retired  to 
her  high  couch  and  closed  the  gayly  flowered  curtains  around 
her.  But,  out  on  the  small  balcony  which  hung  like  a  cage 
from  his  eastern  window,  Doro  stood,  leaning  over  the  iron 
railing  and  listening,  listening  to  the  far  sound  of  the  sea. 

Such  had  been  the  life  down  in  the  old  house  for  sixteen 
long,  winterless  years,  the  only  changes  being  more  difficult 
music  and  more  toast,  longer  lessons  in  French,  longer  legs 
to  the  little  blue  trousers,  increased  attention  to  sea-baths  and. 
deportment,  and  always  and  ever  a  careful  saving  of  every 
copper  penny  and  battered  shilling.  What  became  of  these 
coins  old  Viny  did  not  know ;  she  only  knew  how  patiently 
they  were  collected,  and  how  scrupulously  saved.  Miss  Elisa- 
betha attended  to  the  orange-grove  in  person  ;  not  one  orange 
was  lost,  and  the  annual  waste  of  the  other  proprietors,  an 
ancient  and  matter-of-course  waste,  handed  down  from  father 
to  son,  represented  in  her  purse  not  a  few  silver  pieces.  Pe- 
dro, the  Minorcan,  who  brought  her  fish  and  sea-food,  she 
had  drilled  from  boyhood  in  his  own  art  by  sheer  force  of 


MISS  ELISABETHA.  81 

will,  paying  him  by  the  day,  and  sending  him  into  the  town  to 
sell  from  door  to  door  all  she  did  not  need  herself,  to  the  very 
last  clam.  The  lazy  housewives  soon  grew  into  the  habit  of 
expecting  Pedro  and  his  basket,  and  stood  in  their  doorways 
chatting  in  the  sun  and  waiting  for  him,  while  the  husbands 
let  their  black  dugouts  lie  idle,  and  lounged  on  the  sea-wall, 
smoking  and  discussing  the  last  alligator  they  had  shot,  or  the 
last  ship,  a  coasting-schooner  out  of  water,  which  had  sailed 
up  their  crooked  harbor  six  months  before.  Miss  Elisabetha 
had  learned  also  to  braid  palmetto,  and  her  long  fingers,  once 
accustomed  to  the  work,  accomplished  as  much  in  a  week  as 
Zanita  Perez  and  both  her  apprentices  accomplished  in  two ; 
she  brought  to  the  task  also  original  ideas,  original  at  least  in 
Beata,  where  the  rude  hats  and  baskets  were  fac-similes  of 
those  braided  there  two  hundred  years  before  by  the  Spanish 
women,  who  had  learned  the  art  from  the  Indians.  Thus 
Miss  Elisabetha's  wares  found  ready  sale  at  increased  prices, 
little  enough  to  Northern  ideas — sixpence  for  a  hat — one  shil- 
ling for  a  basket ;  but  all  down  the  coast,  and  inland  toward 
the  great  river,  there  was  a  demand  for  her  work,  and  the 
lines  hung  in  the  garden  were  almost  constantly  covered  with 
the  drying  palmetto.  Then  she  taught  music.  To  whom,  do 
you  ask  ?  To  the  black-eyed  daughters  of  the  richer  towns- 
people, and  to  one  or  two  demoiselles  belonging  to  Spanish 
families  down  the  coast,  sent  up  to  Beata  to  be  educated  by 
the  nuns.  The  good  Sisters  djd  their  best,  but  they  knew 
little,  poor  things,  and  were  glad  to  call  in  Miss  Elisabetha 
with  her  trills  and  quavers ;  so  the  wiry  organ  in  the  little  ca- 
thedral sounded  out  the  ballads  and  romanzas  of  Monsieur 
Vocard,  and  the  demoiselles  learned  to  sing  them  in  their 
broken  French,  no  doubt  greatly  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
golden-skinned  old  fathers  and  mothers  on  the  plantations 
down  the  coast.  The  padre  in  charge  of  the  parish  had  often 
importuned  Miss  Elisabetha  to  play  this  organ  on  Sundays,  as 
the  decorous  celebration  of  high-mass  suffered  sadly,  not  to 
say  ludicrously,  from  the  blunders  of  poor  Sister  Paula.  But 


82  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

Miss  Elisabetha  briefly  refused  ;  she  must  draw  a  line  some- 
where, and  a  pagan  ceremonial  she  could  not  countenance. 
The  Daarg  family,  while  abhorring  greatly  the  Puritanism  of 
the  New  England  colonies,  had  yet  held  themselves  equally 
aloof  from  the  image-worship  of  Rome;  and  they  had  al- 
ways considered  it  one  of  the  inscrutable  mysteries  of  Provi- 
dence that  the  French  nation,  so  skilled  in  polite  attitude,  so 
versed  in  the  singing  of  romanzas,  should  yet  have  been  al- 
lowed to  remain  so  long  in  ignorance  of  the  correct  religious 
mean. 

The  old  house  was  managed  with  the  nicest  care.  Its 
thick  coquina-walls  remained  solid  still,  and  the  weak  spots 
in  the  roof  were  mended  with  a  thatch  of  palmetto  and  tar, 
applied  monthly  under  the  mistress's  superintendence  by 
Viny,  who  never  ceased  to  regard  the  performance  as  a  won- 
der of  art,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  the  Beata  fashion  of 
letting  roofs  leak  when  they  wanted  to,  the  family  never  in- 
terfering, but  encamping  on  the  far  side  of  the  flow  with  calm 
undisturbed.  The  few  pieces  of  furniture  were  dusted  and 
rubbed  daily,  and  the  kitchen  department  was  under  martial 
law ;  the  three  had  enough  to  eat — indeed,  an  abundance — 
oysters,  fish,  and  clams,  sweet  potatoes  from  the  garden,  and 
various  Northern  vegetables  forced  to  grow  under  the  vigilant 
nursing  they  received,  but  hating  it,  and  coming  up  as  spin- 
dling as  they  could.  The  one  precious  cow  gave  them  milk 
and  butter,  the  well-conducted  hens  gave  them  eggs ;  flour 
and  meal,  coffee  and  tea,  hauled  across  the  barrens  from  the 
great  river,  were  paid  for  in  palmetto-work.  Yes,  Miss  Elisa- 
betha's  household,  in  fact,  lived  well,  better  perhaps  than  any 
in  Beata ;  but  so  measured  were  her  quantities,  so  exact  her 
reckonings,  so  long  her  look  ahead,  that  sometimes,  when  she 
was  away,  old  Viny  felt  a  sudden  wild  desire  to  toss  up  frit- 
ters in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  to  throw  away  yesterday's 
tea-leaves,  to  hurl  the  soured  milk  into  the  road,  or  even  to 
eat  oranges  without  counting  them,  according  to  the  fashions 
of  the  easy  old  days  when  Doro's  Spanish  grandmother  held 


MISS  ELISABETHA.  83 

the  reins,  and  everything  went  to  ruin  comfortably.  Every 
morning  after  breakfast  Miss  Elisabetha  went  the  rounds 
through  the  house  and  garden  ;  then  English  and  French 
with  Doro  for  two  hours  ;  next  a  sea-bath  for  him,  and  sail- 
ing or  walking  as  he  pleased,  when  the  sun  was  not  too  hot. 
Luncheon  at  noon,  followed  by  a  siesta  ;  then  came  a  music- 
lesson,  long  and  charming  to  both ;  and,  after  that,  he  had 
his  choice  from  among  her  few  books.  Dinner  at  five,  a  stroll 
along  the  beach,  music  in  the  evenings — at  first  the  piano  in 
the  parlor,  then  the  guitar  under  the  arches ;  last  of  all,  the 
light  supper,  and  good-night.  Such  was  Doro's  day.  But 
Miss  Elisabetha,  meanwhile,  had  a  hundred  other  duties  which 
she  never  neglected,  in  spite  of  her  attention  to  his  welfare — 
first  the  boy,  then  his  money,  for  it  was  earned  and  destined 
for  him.  Thus  the  years  had  passed,  without  change,  without 
event,  without  misfortune ;  the  orange-trees  had  not  failed, 
the  palmetto-work  had  not  waned,  and  the  little  store  of  money 
grew  apace.  Doro,  fully  employed,  indulged  by  Viny,  amused 
with  his  dogs,  his  parrot,  his  mocking-birds,  and  young  owls, 
all  the  variety  of  pets  the  tropical  land  afforded,  even  to  young 
alligators  clandestinely  kept  in  a  sunken  barrel  up  the  marsh, 
knew  no  ennui.  But,  most  of  all,  the  music  filled  his  life, 
rounding  out  every  empty  moment,  and  making  an  undercur- 
rent, as  it  were,  to  all  other  occupations  ;  so  that  the  French 
waltzed  through  his  brain,  the  English  went  to  marches,  the 
sailing  made  for  itself  gondelieds,  and  even  his  plunges  in  the 
Warra  were  like  crashes  of  fairy  octaves,  with  arpeggios  of 
pearly  notes  in  showers  coming  after. 

These  were  the  ante-bellum  days,  before  the  war  had 
opened  the  Southern  country  to  winter  visitors  from  the 
North  ;  invalids  a  few,  tourists  a  few,  came  and  went,  but  the 
great  tide,  which  now  sweeps  annually  down  the  Atlantic 
coast  to  Florida,  was  then  unknown.  Beata,  lying  by  itself 
far  down  the  peninsula,  no  more  looked  for  winter  visitors 
than  it  looked  for  angels ;  but  one  day  an  angel  arrived  una- 
wares, and  Doro  saw  her. 


84  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

Too  simple-hearted  to  conceal,  excited,  longing  for  sym- 
pathy, he  poured  out  his  stoiy  to  Miss  Elisabetha,  who  sat 
copying  from  her  music-book  a  certain  ballad  for  the  Demoi- 
selle Xantez. 

"  It  was  over  on  the  north  beach,  aunt,  and  I  heard  the 
music  and  hastened  thither.  She  was  sitting  on  a  tiger-skin 
thrown  down  on  the  white  sand  ;  purple  velvet  flowed  around 
her,  and  above,  from  embroideries  like  cream,  rose  her  flower- 
face  set  on  a  throat  so  white,  where  gleamed  a  star  of 
brilliancy  ;  her  hair  was  like  gold — yellow  gold — and  it  hung 
in  curls  over  her  shoulders,  a  mass  of  radiance ;  her  eyes  were 
blue  as  the  deepest  sky-color ;  and  oh  !  so  white  her  skin,  I 
could  scarcely  believe  her  mortal.  She  was  playing  on  a  gui- 
tar, with  her  little  hands  so  white,  so  soft,  and  singing — aunt, 
it  was  like  what  I  have  dreamed." 

The  boy  stopped  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
Miss  Elisabetha  had  paused,  pen  in  hand.  What  was  this 
new  talk  of  tiger-skins  and  golden  hair  ?  No  one  could  sing 
in  Beata  save  herself  alone  ;  the  boy  was  dreaming  ! 

"  Theodore,"  she  said,  "  fancy  is  permitted  to  us  under 
certain  restrictions,  but  no  well-regulated  mind  will  make  to 
itself  realities  of  fancies.  I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  say  it, 
but  the  romances  must  be  immediately  removed  from  the 
shelf." 

These  romances,  three  in  number,  selected  and  sanctioned 
by  the  governess  of  the  Misses  Daarg  forty  years  before,  still 
stood  in  Miss  Elisabetha's  mind  as  exemplars  of  the  wildest 
flights  of  fancy. 

"  But  this  is  not  fancy,  dear  aunt,"  said  Doro  eagerly, 
his  brown  eyes  velvet  with  moisture,  and  his  brown  cheeks 
flushed.  "  I  saw  it  all  this  afternoon  over  on  the  beach ;  I 
could  show  you  the  very  spot  where  the  tiger-skin  lay,  and 
the  print  of  her  foot,  which  had  a  little  shoe  so  odd — like 
this,"  and  rapidly  he  drew  the  outline  of  a  walking-boot  in  the 
extreme  of  the  Paris  fashion. 

Miss  Elisabetha  put  on  her  glasses. 


MISS  ELISABETHA.  85 

"  Heels,"  she  said  slowly  ;  "  I  have  heard  of  them." 

"  There  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  like  her,"  pursued  the 
excited  boy,  "  for  her  hair  is  of  pure  gold,  not  like  the  people 
here  ;  and  her  eyes  are  so  sweet,  and  her  forehead  so  white  ! 
I  never  knew  such  people  lived — why  have  you  not  told  me 
all  these  years  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  blonde,"  replied  Miss  Elisabetha  primly.  "  I, 
too,  am  a  blonde,  Theodore." 

"  But  not  like  this,  aunt.     My  lovely  lady  is  like  a  rose." 

"  A  subdued  monotone  of  coloring  has  ever  been  a  char- 
acteristic of  our  family,  Theodore.  But  I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand your  story.  Who  is  this  person,  and  was  she  alone  on 
the  beach  ?  " 

"  There  were  others,  but  I  did  not  notice  them ;  I  only 
looked  at  her." 

"  And  she  sang  ?  " 

"  O  aunt,  so  heavenly  sweet — so  strange,  so  new  her  song, 
that  I  was  carried  away  up  into  the  blue  sky  as  if  on  strong 
wings — I  seemed  to  float  in  melody.  But  I  can  not  talk  of 
it ;  it  takes  my  breath  away,  even  in  thought !  " 

Miss  Elisabetha  sat  perplexed. 

"  Was  it  one  of  our  romanzas,  Theodore,  or  a  ballad  ?  " 
she  said,  running  over  the  list  in  her  mind. 

"  It  was  something  I  never  heard  before,"  replied  Doro, 
in  a  low  voice  ;  "  it  was  not  like  anything  else — not  even  the 
mocking-bird,  for,  though  it  went  on  and  on,  the  same  strain 
floated  back  into  it  again  and  again  ;  and  the  mocking-bird, 
you  know,  has  a  light  and  fickle  soul.  Aunt,  I  can  not  tell 
you  what  it  was  like,  but  it  seemed  to  tell  me  a  new  story  of 
a  new  world." 

"  How  many  beats  had  it  to  the  measure  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Elisabetha,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  boy  dreamily. 

"  You  do  not  know !  All  music  is  written  in  some  set 
time,  Theodore.  At  least,  you  can  tell  me  about  the  words. 
Were  they  French  ?  " 


86  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

"  No." 

"  Nor  English  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  I  know  not ;  angel-words,  perhaps. 

"  Did  she  speak  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Doro,  clasping  his  hands  fervently.  "  She 
asked  me  if  I  liked  the  song,  and  I  said,  '  Lady,  it  is  of  the 
angels.'  Then  she  smiled,  and  asked  my  name,  and  I  told 
her,  '  Doro  ' — " 

"  You  should  have  said,  '  Theodore,' "  interrupted  Miss 
Elisabetha ;  "  do  I  not  always  call  you  so  ?  " 

"  And  she  said  it  was  a  lovely  name  ;  and  could  I  sing  ? 
I  took  her  guitar,  and  sang  to  her — " 

"  And  she  praised  your  method,  I  doubt  not  ?  " 

"  She  said,  '  Oh,  what  a  lovely  voice  ! '  and  she  touched 
my  hair  with  her  little  hands,  and  I— I  thought  I  should  die, 
aunt,  but  I  only  fell  at  her  feet." 

"  And  where — where  is  this  person  now  ?  "  said  the  per- 
plexed maiden,  catching  at  something  definite. 

"  She  has  gone — gone  !  I  stood  and  watched  the  little  flag 
on  the  mast  until  I  could  see  it  no  more.  She  has  gone !  Pity 
me,  aunt,  dear  aunt.  What  shall  I  do  ?  How  shall  I  live  ?  " 

The  boy  broke  into  sobs,  and  would  say  no  more.  Miss 
Elisabetha  was  strangely  stirred  ;  here  was  a  case  beyond  her 
rules  ;  what  should  she  do  ?  Having  no  precedent  to  guide 
her,  she  fell  back  into  her  old  beliefs  gained  from  studies  of 
the  Daarg  family,  as  developed  in  boys.  Doro  was  excused 
from  lessons,  and  the  hours  were  made  pleasant  to  him.  She 
spent  many  a  morning  reading  aloud  to  him ;  and  old  Viny 
stood  amazed  at  the  variety  and  extravagance  of  the  dishes 
ordered  for  him. 

"  What !  chickens  ebery  day,  Miss  'Lisabeet  ?  Tears  like 
Mass'  Doro  hab  eberyting  now  !  " 

"  Theodore  is  ill,  Lavinia,"  replied  the  mistress ;  and  she 
really  thought  so. 


MISS  ELISABETH  A.  87 

Music,  however,  there  was  none ;  the  old  charmed  after- 
noons and  evenings  were  silent. 

"  I  can  not  bear  it,"  the  boy  had  said,  with  trembling  lips. 

But  one  evening  he  did  not  return  :  the  dinner  waited  for 
him  in  vain  ;  the  orange  after-glow  faded  away  over  the  pine- 
barrens  ;  and  in  the  pale  green  of  the  evening  sky  arose  the 
star  of  the  twilight ;  still  he  came  not. 

Miss  Elisabetha  could  eat  nothing. 

"  Keep  up  the  fire,  Lavinia,"  she  said,  rising  from  the  table 
at  last. 

"  Keep  up  de  fire,  Miss  'Lisabeet !    Till  when  ?  " 

"  Till  Theodore  comes  !  "  replied  the  mistress  shortly. 

"  De  worl'  mus'  be  coming  to  de  end,"  soliloquized  the  old 
black  woman,  carrying  out  the  dishes ;  "  sticks  of  wood  no 
account ! " 

Late  in  the  evening  a  light  footstep  sounded  over  the 
white  path,  and  the  strained,  watching  eyes  under  the  stone 
arches  saw  at  last  the  face  of  the  missing  one. 

"  O  aunt,  I  have  seen  her — I  have  seen  her  !  I  thought 
her  gone  for  ever.  O  aunt — dear,  dear  aunt,  she  has  sung  for 
me  again  !  "  said  the  boy,  flinging  himself  down  on  the  stones, 
and  laying  his  flushed  face  on  her  knee.  "  This  time  it  was 
over  by  the  old  lighthouse,  aunt.  I  was  sailing  up  and  down 
in  the  very  worst  breakers  I  could  find,  half  hoping  they 
would  swamp  the  boat,  for  I  thought  perhaps  I  could  forget 
her  down  there  under  the  water — when  I  saw  figures  moving 
over  on  the  island-beach.  Something  in  the  outlines  of  one 
made  me  tremble  ;  and  I  sailed  over  like  the  wind,  the  little 
boat  tilted  on  its  side  within  a  hair's-breadth  of  the  water, 
cutting  it  like  a  knife  as  it  flew.  It  was  she,  aunt,  and  she 
smiled  !  '  What,  my  young  Southern  nightingale,'  she  said, 
'  is  it  you  ? '  And  she  gave  me  her  hand — her  soft  little 
hand." 

The  thin  fingers,  hardened  by  much  braiding  of  palmetto, 
withdrew  themselves  instinctively  from  the  boy's  dark  curls. 
He  did  not  notice  it,  but  rushed  on  with  his  story  unheeding  : 


88  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

"  She  let  me  walk  with  her,  aunt,  and  hold  her  parasol, 
decked  with  lace,  and  she  took  off  her  hat  and  hung  it  on  my 
arm,  and  it  had  a  long,  curling  plume.  She  gave  me  sweet 
things — oh,  so  delicious  !  See,  I  kept  some,"  said  Doro, 
bringing  out  a  little  package  of  bonbons.  "  Some  are  of 
sugar,  you  see,  and  some  have  nuts  in  them  ;  those  are  choco- 
late. Are  they  not  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Candies,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Elisabetha,  touching  them 
doubtfully  with  the  end  of  her  quill. 

"  And  she  sang  for  me,  aunt,  the  same  angel's  music  ;  and 
then,  when  I  was  afar  in  heaven,  she  brought  me  back  with  a 
song  about  three  fishermen  who  sailed  out  into  the  west ;  and 
I  wept  to  hear  her,  for  her  voice  then  was  like  the  sea  when 
it  feels  cruel.  She  saw  the  tears,  and,  bidding  me  sit  by  her 
side,  she  struck  a  few  chords  on  her  guitar  and  sang  to  me 
of  a  miller's  daughter  who  grew  so  dear,  so  dear.  Do  you 
know  it,  aunt  ?  " 

"  A  miller's  daughter  ?  No ;  I  have  no  acquaintance  with 
any  such  person,"  said  Miss  Elisabetha,  considering. 

"  Wait,  I  will  sing  it  to  you,"  said  Doro,  running  to  bring 
his  guitar ;  "  she  taught  it  to  me  herself  !  " 

And  then  the  tenor  voice  rose  in  the  night  air,  bearing  on 
the  lovely  melody  the  impassioned  words  of  the  poet.  Doro 
sang  them  with  all  his  soul,  and  the  ancient  maiden  felt  her 
heart  disquieted  within  her — why,  she  knew  not.  It  seemed 
as  though  her  boy  was  drifting  away  whither  she  could  not 
follow. 

"  Is  it  not  beautiful,  aunt  ?  I  sang  it  after  her  line  by  line 
until  I  knew  it  all,  and  then  I  sang  her  all  my  songs ;  and  she 
said  I  must  come  and  see  her  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and 
she  would  give  me  her  picture  and  something  else.  What  do 
you  suppose  it  is,  aunt?  She  would  not  tell  me,  but  she 
smiled  and  gave  me  her  hand  for  good-by.  And  now  I  can 
live,  for  I  am  to  see  her  at  Martera's  house,  beyond  the  con- 
vent, the  day  after  to-morrow,  the  day  after  to-morrow — oh, 
happy  day,  the  day  after  to-morrow  !  " 


MISS  ELISABETHA.  89 

"  Come  and  eat  your  dinner,  Theodore,"  said  Miss  Elisa- 
betha,  rising.  Face  to  face  with  a  new  world,  whose  possi- 
bilities she  but  dimly  understood,  and  whose  language  was  to 
her  an  unknown  tongue,  she  grasped  blindly  at  the  old  an- 
chors riveted  in  years  of  habit ;  the  .boy  had  always  been 
something  of  an  epicure  in  his  fastidious  way,  and  one  of  his 
favorite  dishes  was  on  the  table. 

"  You  may  go,  Lavinia,"  she  said,  as  the  old  slave  lingered 
to  see  if  her  darling  enjoyed  the  dainties  ;  she  could  not  bear 
that  even  Viny's  faithful  eyes  should  notice  the  change,  if 
change  there  was. 

The  boy  ate  nothing. 

"  I  am  not  hungry,  aunt,"  he  said,  "  I  had  so  many 
delicious  things  over  on  the  beach.  I  do  not  know  what 
they  were,  but  they  were  not  like  our  things  at  all."  And, 
with  a  slight  gesture  of  repugnance,  he  pushed  aside  his 
plate. 

"You  had  better  go  to  bed,"  said  Miss  Elisabetha,  rising. 
In  her  perplexity  this  was  the  first  thing  which  suggested  it- 
self to  her ;  a  good  night's  rest  had  been  known  to  work 
wonders ;  she  would  say  no  more  till  morning.  The  boy 
went  readily ;  but  he  must  have  taken  his  guitar  with  him, 
for  long  after  Miss  Elisabetha  had  retired  to  her  couch  she 
heard  him  softly  singing  again  and  again  the  romance  of  the 
miller's  daughter.  Several  times  she  half  rose  as  if  to  go  and 
stop  him  ;  then  a  confused  thought  came  to  her  that  perhaps 
his  unrest  might  work  itself  off  in  that  way,  and  she  sank 
back,  listening  meanwhile  to  the  fanciful  melody  with  feelings 
akin  to  horror.  It  seemed  to  have  no  regular  time,  and  the 
harmony  was  new  and  strange  to  her  old-fashioned  ears. 
"  Truly,  it  must  be  the  work  of  a  composer  gone  mad,"  said 
the  poor  old  maid,  after  trying  in  vain  for  the  fifth  time  to 
follow  the  wild  air.  There  was  not  one  trill  or  turn  in  all  its 
length,  and  the  accompaniment,  instead  of  being  the  decorous 
one  octave  in  the  bass,  followed  by  two  or  three  chords  ac- 
cording to  the  time,  seemed  to  be  but  a  general  sweeping 


9o 


MISS  ELISABETHA. 


over  the  strings,  with  long  pauses,  and  unexpected  minor 
harmony  introduced,  turning  the  air  suddenly  upside  down, 
and  then  back  again  before  one  had  time  to  comprehend  what 
was  going  on.  "  Heaven  help  me  !  "  said  Miss  Elisabetha,  as 
the  melody  began  again  for  the  sixth  time,  "  but  I  fear  I  am 
sinful  enough  to  hate  that  miller's  daughter."  And  it  was 
very  remarkable,  to  say  the  least,  that  a  person  in  her  position 
"  was  possessed  of  a  jewel  to  tremble  in  her  ear,"  she  added 
censoriously,  "  not  even  to  speak  of  a  necklace."  But  the 
comfort  was  cold,  and,  before  she  knew  it,  slow,  troubled  tears 
had  dampened  her  pillow. 

Early  the  next  morning  she  was  astir  by  candle-light,  and, 
going  into  the  detached  kitchen,  began  preparing  breakfast 
with  her  own  hands,  adding  to  the  delicacies  already  ordered 
certain  honey-cakes,  an  heirloom  in  the  Daarg  family.  Viny 
could  scarcely  believe  her  eyes  when,  on  coming  down  to  her 
domain  at  the  usual  hour,  she  found  the  great  fireplace  glow- 
ing, and  the  air  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  spices ;  Christmas 
alone  had  heretofore  seen  these  honey-cakes,  and  to-day  was 
only  a  common  day ! 

"  I  do  not  care  for  anything,  aunt,"  said  Doro,  coming 
listlessly  to  the  table  when  all  was  ready.  He  drank  some 
coffee,  broke  a  piece  of  bread,  and  then  went  back  to  his  gui- 
tar ;  the  honey-cakes  he  did  not  even  notice. 

One  more  effort  remained.  Going  softly  into  the  parlor 
during  the  morning,  Miss  Elisabetha  opened  the  piano,  and, 
playing  over  the  prelude  to  "  The  Proud  Ladye,"  began  to 
sing  in  her  very  best  style,  giving  the  flourishes  with  elaborate 
art,  scarcely  a  note  without  a  little  step  down  from  the  one 
next  higher;  these  airy  descents,  like  flights  of  fairy  stairs, 
were  considered  very  high  art  in  the  days  of  Monsieur  Vo- 
card.  She  was  in  the  middle  of  "  a- weeping  and  a-weeping," 
when  Doro  rushed  into  the  room.  "  O  aunt,"  he  cried, 
"  please,  please  do  not  sing  !  Indeed,  I  can  not  bear  it.  We 
have  been  all  wrong  about  our  music ;  I  can  not  explain  it, 
but  I  feel  it — I  know  it.  If  you  could  only  hear  her  !  Come 


MISS  ELISABETHA.  91 

with  me  to-morrow  and  hear  her,  dear  aunt,  and  then  you 
will  understand  what  I  mean." 

Left  to  herself  again,  Miss  Elisabetha  felt  a  great  resolve 
come  to  her.  She  herself  would  go  and  see  this  stranger,  and 
grind  her  to  powder !  She  murmured  these  words  over  sev- 
eral times,  and  derived  much  comfort  from  them. 

With  firm  hands  she  unlocked  the  cedar  chest  which  had 
come  with  her  from  the  city  seventeen  years  before ;  but  the 
ladies  of  the  Daarg  family  had  not  been  wont  to  change  their 
attire  every  passing  fashion,  and  the  robe  she  now  drew  forth 
was  made  in  the  style  of  full  twenty-five  years  previous — a 
stiff  drab  brocade  flowered  in  white,  two  narrow  flounces 
around  the  bottom  of  the  scant  skirt,  cut  half  low  in  the  neck 
with  a  little  bertha,  the  material  wanting  in  the  lower  part 
standing  out  resplendent  in  the  broad  leg-of-mutton  sleeves, 
stiffened  with  buckram.  Never  had  the  full  daylight  of  Beata 
seen  this  precious  robe,  and  Miss  Elisabetha  herself  con- 
sidered it  for  a  moment  with  some  misgivings  as  to  its  being 
too  fine  for  such  an  occasion.  But  had  not  Doro  spoken  of 
"  velvet "  and  "  embroideries  "  ?  So,  with  solemnity,  she  ar- 
rayed herself,  adding  a  certain  Canton-crape  scarf  of  a  delicate 
salmon  color,  and  a  Leghorn  bonnet  with  crown  and  cape, 
which  loomed  out  beyond  her  face  so  that  the  three  curls 
slanted  forward  over  the  full  ruche  to  get  outside,  somewhat 
like  blinders.  Thus  clad,  with  her  slippers,  her  bag  on  her 
arm,  and  lace  mits  on  her  hands,  Miss  Elisabetha  surveyed 
herself  in  the  glass.  In  the  bag  were  her  handkerchief,  an 
ancient  smelling-bottle,  and  a  card,  yellow  indeed,  but  still  a 
veritable  engraved  card,  with  these  words  upon  it : 

"Miss  ELISABETHA  DAARG, 
DAARG'S  BAY." 

The  survey  was  satisfactory.  "  C&tainly  I  look  the  gen- 
tlewoman," she  thought,  with  calm  pride,  **w§d  this  person, 
whoever  she  is,  can  not  fail  to  at  once  recognize^fiae  as  such. 


92  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

It  has  never  been  our  custom  to  visit  indiscriminately ;  but  in 
this  case  I  do  it  for  the  boy's  sake."  So  she  sallied  forth,  go- 
ing out  by  a  side-door  to  escape  observation,  and  walked  to- 
ward the  town,  revolving  in  her  mind  the  words  she  should 
use  when  face  to  face  with  the  person.  "  I  shall  request  her 
— with  courtesy,  of  course— still  I  shall  feel  obliged  to  request 
her  to  leave  the  neighborhood,"  she  thought.  "I  shall  ex- 
press to  her — with  kindness,  but  also  with  dignity — my  opin- 
ion of  the  meretricious  music  she  has  taught  my  boy,  and  I 
shall  say  to  her  frankly  that  I  really  can  not  permit  her  to  see 
him  again.  Coming  from  me,  these  words  will,  of  course, 
have  weight,  and — " 

"Oh,,  see  Miss  'Lisabeet!"  sang  out  a  child's  voice. 
"  Nita,  do  but  come  and  see  how  fine  she  is ! " 

Nita  came,  saw,  and  followed,  as  did  other  children — girls 
carrying  plump  babies,  olive-skinned  boys  keeping  close  to- 
gether, little  blacks  of  all  ages,  with  go-carts  made  of  turtle- 
shells.  It  was  not  so  much  the  splendor — though  that  was 
great,  too — as  it  was  the  fact  that  Miss  Elisabetha  wore  it. 
Had  they  not  all  known  her  two  cotton  gowns  as  far  back  as 
they  could  remember  ?  Reaching  the  Martera  house  at  last,, 
her  accustomed  glide  somewhat  quickened  by  the  presence  of 
her  escort  (for,  although  she  had  often  scolded  them  over  her 
own  gate,  it  was  different  now  when  they  assumed  the  pro- 
portions of  a  body-guard),  she  gave  her  card  to  little  Inez,  a 
daughter  of  the  household,  and  one  of  her  pupils. 

"  Bear  this  card  to  the  person  you  have  staying  with  you, 
my  child,  and  ask  her  if  she  will  receive  me." 

"But  there  is  more  than  one  person,  sefiora,"  replied  Inez, 
lost  in  wonder  over  the  brocade. 

"  The  one  who  sings,  then." 

"  They  all  sing,  Miss  'Lisabeet." 

"  Well,  then,  I  mean  the  person  who — who  wears  purple 
velvet  and — and  embroideries,"  said  the  visitor,  bringing  out 
these  items  reluctantly. 

"  Ah  !  you  mean  the  beautiful  lady,"  cried  Inez.     "  I  run, 


MISS  ELISABETHA. 


93 


I  run,  senora  " ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  Miss  Elisabetha  was 
ushered  up  the  stairs,  and  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
"  the  person." 

"  To  whom  have  I  the  honor  of  speaking?  "  said  a  languid 
voice  from  the  sofa. 

"  Madame,  my  card — " 

"Oh,  was  that  a  card?  Pray  excuse  me. — Lucille,  my 
glasses."  Then,  as  a  French  maid  brought  the  little,  gold- 
rimmed  toy,  the  person  scanned  the  name.  "  Ma'm'selle 
Dag  ?  "  she  said  inquiringly. 

"  Daarg,  madame,"  replied  Miss  Elisabetha.  "  If  you 
have  resided  in  New  York  at  all,  you  are  probably  familiar 
with  the  name  " ;  and  majestically  she  smoothed  down  the 
folds  of  the  salmon-colored  scarf. 

"  I  have  resided  in  New  York,  and  I  am  not  familiar  with 
the  name,"  said  the  person,  throwing  her  head  back  indolently 
among  the  cushions. 

She  wore  a  long,  full  robe  of  sea-green  silk,  opening  over 
a  mist  of  lace-trimmed  skirts,  beneath  whose  filmy  borders 
peeped  little  feet  incased  in  green-silk  slippers,  with  heels  of 
grotesque  height ;  a  cord  and  tassels  confined  the  robe  to  her 
round  waist ;  the  hanging  sleeves,  open  to  the  shoulders,  re- 
vealed superb  wrhite  arms ;  and  the  mass-  of  golden  hair  was 
gathered  loosely  up  behind,  .with  a  mere  soufigon  of  a  cap 
perched  on  top,  a  knot  of  green  ribbon  contrasting  with  the 
low-down  golden  ripples  over  the  forehead.  Miss  Elisabetha 
surveyed  the  attitude  and  the  attire  with  disfavor;  in  her 
young  days  no  lady  in  health  wore  a  wrapper,  or  lolled  on 
sofas.  But  the  person,  who  was  the  pet  prima  donna  of  the 
day,  English,  with  a  world-wide  experience  and  glory,  knew 
nothing  of  such  traditions. 

"  I  have  called,  madame,"  began  the  visitor,  ignoring  the 
slight  with  calm  dignity  (after  all,  how  should  "  a  person " 
know  anything  of  the  name  of  Daarg  ?),  "  on  account  of  my — 
my  ward,  Theodore  Oesterand." 

"  Never  heard  of  him,"  replied  the  diva.     It  was  her  hour 


94 


MISS  ELISABETHA. 


for  siesta,  and  any  infringement  of  her  rules  told  upon  the 
carefully  tended,  luxuriant  beauty. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Miss  Elisabetha,  with  increased 
accentuation  of  her  vowels.  "  Theodore  has  had  the  honor 
of  seeing  you  twice,  and  he  has  also  sung  for  you." 

"  What !  you  mean  my  little  bird  of  the  tropics,  my  South- 
ern nightingale !  "  exclaimed  the  singer,  raising  herself  from 
the  cushions. — "  Lucille,  why  have  you  not  placed  a  chair  for 
this  lady  ? — I  assure  you,  I  take  the  greatest  interest  in  the 
boy,  Miss  Dag." 

"  Daarg,"  replied  Miss  Elisabetha  ;  and  then,  with  dignity, 
she  took  the  chair,  and,  seating  herself,  crossed  one  slipper 
over  the  other,  in  the  attitude  number  one  of  her  youth. 
Number  one  had  signified  "  repose,"  but  little  repose  felt  she 
now ;  there  was  something  in  the  attire  of  this  person,  some- 
thing in  her  yellow  hair  and  white  arms,  something  in  the 
very  air  of  the  room,  heavy  with  perfumes,  that  seemed  to 
hurt  and  confuse  her. 

"  I  have  never  heard  a  tenor  of  more  promise,  never  in  my 
life  ;  and  consider  how  much  that  implies,  ma'm'selle  !  You 
probably  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  that  pleasure." 

"  Bien,  I  will  tell  you.     I  am  Kernadi." 

Miss  Elisabetha  bowed,  and  inhaled  salts  from  her  smell- 
ing-bottle, her  little  finger  elegantly  separated  from  the  others. 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  have  never  heard  of 
Kernadi — C£cile  Kernadi  ?  "  said  the  diva,  sitting  fairly  erect 
now  in  her  astonishment. 

"  Never,"  replied  the  maiden,  not  without  a  proud  satis- 
faction in  the  plain  truth  of  her  statement. 

"  Where  have  you  lived,  ma'm'selle  ?  " 

"  Here,  Mistress  Kernadi." 

The  singer  gazed  at  the  figure  before  her  in  its  ancient 
dress,  and  gradually  a  smile  broke  over  her  beautiful  face. 

"Ma'm'selle,"  she  said,  dismissing  herself  and  her  fame 
with  a  wave  of  her  white  hand,  "  you  have  a  treasure  in  Doro, 


MISS  ELISABETHA. 


95 


a  voice  rare  in  a  century ;  and,  in  the  name  of  the  world,  I 
ask  you  for  him." 

Miss  Elisabetha  sat  speechless  ;  she  was  never  quick  with 
words,  and  now  she  was  struck  dumb. 

"  I  will  take  him  with  me  when  I  go  in  a  few  days,"  pur- 
sued Kernadi ;  "  and  I  promise  you  he  shall  have  the  very 
best  instructors.  His  method  now  is  bad — insufferably  bad. 
The  poor  boy  has  had,  of  course,  no  opportunities ;  but  he  is 
still  young,  and  can  unlearn  as  well  as  learn.  Give  him  to 
me.  I  will  relieve  you  of  all  expenses,  so  sure  do  I  feel  that 
he  will  do  me  credit  in  the  end.  I  will  even  pass  my  word 
that  he  shall  appear  with  me  upon  either  the  London  or  the 
Vienna  stage  before  two  years  are  out." 

Miss  Elisabetha  had  found  her  words  at  last. 

"Madame,"  she  said,  "do  you  wish  to  make  an  opera- 
singer  of  the  son  of  Petrus  Oesterand  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  make  an  opera-singer  of  this  pretty  Doro  ;  and, 
if  this  good  Petrus  is  his  father,  he  will,  no  doubt,  give  his 
consent." 

"  Woman,  he  is  dead." 

"  So  much  the  better ;  he  will  not  interfere  with  our  plans, 
then,"  replied  the  diva,  gayly. 

Miss  Elisabetha  rose  ;  her  tall  form  shook  perceptibly. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  bid  you  good  day,"  she  said,  cour- 
tesying  formally. 

The  woman  on  the  sofa  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  You  are  offended  ?  "  she  asked  ;  "  and  why  ?  " 

"  That  you,  a  person  of  no  name,  of  no  antecedents,  a 
public  singer,  should  presume  to  ask  for  my  boy,  an  Oesterand- 
— should  dare  to  speak  of  degrading  him  to  your  level !  " 

Kernadi  listened  to  these  words  in  profound  astonishment. 
Princes  had  bowed  at  her  feet,  blood-royal  had  watched  for 
her  smile.  Who  was  this  ancient  creature,  with  her  scarf  and 
bag  ?  Perhaps,  poor  thing !  she  did  not  comprehend  !  The 
diva  was  not  bad-hearted,  and  so,  gently  enough,  she  went 
over  her  offer  a  second  time,  dwelling  upon  and  explaining  its 


96  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

advantages.  "  That  he  will  succeed,  I  do  not  doubt,"  she 
said ;  "  but  in  any  case  he  shall  not  want." 

Miss  Elisabetha  was  still  standing. 

"  Want  ?  "  she  repeated  ;  "  Theodore  want  ?  I  should 
think  not." 

"  He  shall  have  the  best  instructors,"  pursued  Kernadi,  all 
unheeding.  To  do  her  justice,  she  meant  all  she  said.  It  is 
ever  a  fancy  of  singers  to  discover  singers — provided  they  sing 
other  rdles. 

"  Madame,  I  have  the  honor  of  instructing  him  myself." 

"  Ah,  indeed.  Very  kind  of  you,  I  am  sure  ;  but — but  no 
doubt  you  will  be  glad  to  give  up  the  task.  And  he  shall  see 
all  the  great  cities  of  Europe,  and  hear  their  music.  I  am 
down  here  merely  for  a  short  change — having  taken  cold  in 
your  miserable  New  York  climate  ;  but  I  have  my  usual  en- 
gagements in  London,  St.  Petersburg,  Vienna,  and  Paris,  you 
know." 

"  No,  madame,  I  do  not  know,"  was  the  stiff  reply. 

Kernadi  opened  her  fine  eyes  still  wider.  It  was  true, 
then,  and  not  a  pretense.  People  really  lived — white  people, 
too — who  knew  nothing  of  her  and  her  movements !  She 
thought,  in  her  vague  way,  that  she  really  must  give  some- 
thing to  the  missionaries  ;  and  then  she  went  back  to 
Doro. 

"It  will  be  a  great  advantage  to  him  to  see  artist-life 
abroad — "  she  began. 

"  I  intend  him  to  see  it,"  replied  Miss  Elisabetha. 

"  But  he  should  have  the  right  companions — advisers — " 

"  7  shall  be  with  him,  madame." 

The  diva  surveyed  the  figure  before  her,  and  amusement 
shone  in  her  eyes. 

"  But  you  will  find  it  fatiguing,"  she  said — "  so  much  jour- 
neying, so  much  change  !  Nay,  ma'm'selle,  remain  at  home 
in  your  peaceful  quiet,  and  trust  the  boy  to  me."  She  had 
sunk  back  upon  her  cushions,  and,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her 
face  in  the  mirror,  she  added,  smiling :  "  One  thing  more. 


MfSS  ELISABETHA. 


97 


You  need  not  fear  lest  I  should  trifle  with  his  young  heart.  I 
assure  you  I  will  not ;  I  shall  be  to  him  like  a  sister." 

"  You  could  scarcely  be  anything  else,  unless  it  was  an 
aunt,"  replied  the  ancient  maiden  ;  "  I  should  judge  you  fif- 
teen years  his  senior,  madame." 

Which  was  so  nearly  accurate  that  the  beauty  started,  and 
for  the  first  time  turned  really  angry. 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  boy  ?  "  she  said,  shortly.  "  If  he 
were  here  I  might  show  you  how  easily —  But,  del!  you 
could  never  understand  such  things ;  let  it  pass.  Will  you 
give  me  the  boy — yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  No." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  diva  lolled  back  on  her  cushions, 
and  yawned. 

"  You  must  be  a  very  selfish  woman — I  think  the  most 
selfish  I  have  ever  known,"  she  said  coolly,  tapping  the  floor 
with  her  little  slippered  feet,  as  if  keeping  time  to  a  waltz. 

"I— selfish?" 

"  Yes,  you — selfish.  And,  by  the  by,  what  right  have  you 
to  keep  the  boy  at  all  ?  Certainly,  he  resembles  you  in  no- 
thing. What  relation  does  he  hold  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  is — he  is  my  ward,"  answered  Miss  Elisabetha,  ner- 
vously rearranging  her  scarf.  "  I  bid  you,  madame,  good 
day." 

"  Ward  ! "  pursued  Kernadi ;  "  that  means  nothing.  Was 
his  mother  your  sister  ?  " 

"  Nay ;  his  mother  was  a  Spanish  lady,"  replied  the  troubled 
one,  who  knew  not  how  to  evade  or  lie. 

"  And  the  father — you  spoke  of  him — was  he  a  relative  ?  " 

A  sudden  and  painful  blush  dyed  the  thin  old  face,  creep- 
ing up  to  the  very  temples. 

"Ah,"  said  the  singer,  with  scornful  amusement  in  her 
voice,  "  if  that  is  all,  I  shall  take  the  boy  without  more  ado  " ; 
and,  lifting  her  glasses,  she  fixed  her  eyes  full  on  the  poor  face 
before  her,  as  though  it  was  some  rare  variety  of  animal. 

"  You  shall  not  have  him  ;  I  say  you  shall  not ! "  cried  the 
5 


98  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

elder  woman,  rousing  to  the  contest  like  a  tigress  defending 
her  young. 

"  Will  you  let  him  choose  ?  "  said  Kernadi,  with  her  mock- 
ing laugh.  "  See  !  I  dare  you  to  let  him  choose  "  ;  and,  spring- 
ing to  her  feet,  she  wheeled  her  visitor  around  suddenly,  so 
that  they  stood  side  by  side  before  the  mirror.  It  was  a  cruel 
deed.  Never  before  had  the  old  eyes  realized  that  their  mild 
blue  had  faded  ;  that  the  curls,  once  so  soft,  had  grown  gray 
and  thin ;  that  the  figure,  once  sylph-like,  was  now  but  angles  ; 
and  the  throat,  once  so  fair,  yellow  and  sinewed.  It  came 
upon  her  suddenly — the  face,  the  coloring,  and  the  dress ;  a 
veil  was  torn  away,  and  she  saw  it  all.  At  the  same  instant 
gleamed  the  golden  beauty  of  the  other,  the  folds  of  her  flow- 
ing robe,  the  mists  of  her  laces.  It  was  too  much.  With 
ashen  face  the  stricken  woman  turned  away,  and  sought  the 
door-knob  ;  she  could  not  speak ;  a  sob  choked  all  utterance. 
Doro  would  choose. 

But  Ce~cile  Kernadi  rushed  forward  ;  her  better  nature  was 
touched, 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  impulsively,  "  you  shall  not  go  so. 
See  !  I  will  promise ;  you  shall  keep  the  boy,  and  I  will  let 
him  go.  He  is  all  you  have,  perhaps,  and  I — I  have  so  much  ! 
Do  you  not  believe  me  ?  I  will  go  away  this  very  day  and 
leave  no  trace  behind.  He  will  pine,  but  it  will  pass — a  boy's 
first  fancy.  I  promised  him  my  picture,  but  you  shall  take  it. 
There  !  Now  go,  go,  before  I  regret  what  I  do.  He  has  such 
a  voice  ! — but  never  mind,  you  shall  not  be  robbed  by  me. 
Farewell,  poor  lady ;  I,  too,  may  grow  old  some  day.  But 
hear  one  little  word  of  advice  from  my  lips :  The  boy  has 
waked  up  to  life  ;  he  will  never  be  again  the  child  you  have 
known.  Though  I  go,  another  will  come ;  take  heed  ! " 

That  night,  in  the  silence  of  her  own  room,  Miss  Elisabetha 
prayed  a  little  prayer,  and  then,  with  firm  hand,  burned  the 
bright  picture  to  ashes. 

Wild  was  the  grief  of  the  boy ;  but  the  fair  enchantress 
was  gone.  He  wept,  he  pined  ;  but  she  was  gone.  He  fell 


MISS  ELISABETHA. 


99 


ill,  and  lay  feverish  upon  his  narrow  bed ;  but  she  was  none 
the  less  gone,  and  nothing  brought  her  back.  Miss  Elisabetha 
tended  him  with  a  great  patience,  and  spoke  no  word.  When 
he  raved  of  golden  hair,  she  never  said,  "  I  have  seen  it " ; 
when  he  cried,  "  Her  voice,  her  angel-voice  !  "  she  never  said, 
"  I  have  heard  it."  But  one  day  she  dropped  these  words  : 
"  Was  she  not  a  false  woman,  Theodore,  who  went  away  not 
caring,  although  under  promise  to  see  you,  and  to  give  you 
her  picture  ? "  And  then  she  walked  quietly  to  her  own 
room,  and  barred  the  door,  and  wept ;  for  the  first  time  in 
her  pure  life  she  had  burdened  her  soul  with  falsehood — yet 
would  she  have  done  it  ten  times  over  to  save  the  boy. 

Time  and  youth  work  wonders ;  it  is  not  that  youth  for- 
gets so  soon  ;  but  this — time  is  then  so  long.  Doro  recovered, 
almost  in  spite  of  himself,  and  the  days  grew  calm  again. 
Harder  than  ever  worked  Miss  Elisabetha,  giving  herself 
hardly  time  to  eat  or  sleep.  Doro  studied  a  little  listlessly, 
but  he  no  longer  cared  for  his  old  amusements.  He  had  freed 
his  pets :  the  mocking-birds  had  flown  back  to  the  barrens, 
and  the  young  alligators,  who  had  lived  in  the  sunken  barrel, 
found  themselves  unexpectedly  obliged  to  earn  their  own 
living  along  the  marshes  and  lagoons.  But  of  music  he  would 
have  none ;  the  piano  stood  silent,  and  his  guitar  had  disap- 
peared. 

"  It  is  wearing  itself  away,"  thought  the  old  maid  ;  "  then 
he  will  come  back  to  me."  But  nightly  she  counted  her  secret 
store,  and,  angered  at  its  smallness,  worked  harder  and  harder, 
worked  until  her  shoulders  ached  and  her  hands  grew  knotted. 
"  One  more  year,  only  one  more  year,"  she  thought ;  "  then 
he  shall  go  ! "  And  through  all  the  weary  toil  these  words 
echoed  like  a  chant—"  One  more  year — only  one  more  !  " 

Two  months  passed,  and  then  the  spring  came  to  the 
winterless  land— came  with  the  yellow  jasmine.  "  But  four 
months  now,  and  he  shall  go,"  said  Miss  Elisabetha,  in  her 
silent  musings  over  the  bag  of  coin.  "  I  have  shortened  the 
time  by  double  tasks."  Lightly  she  stepped  about  the  house, 


ioo  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

counted  her  orange-buds,  and  reckoned  up  the  fish.  She 
played  the  cathedral  organ  now  on  Sundays,  making  inward 
protest  after  every  note,  and  sitting  rigidly  with  her  back 
toward  the  altar  in  the  little  high-up  gallery  during  the  ser- 
mon, as  much  as  to  say :  "  It  is  only  my  body  which  is  here. 
Behold  !  I  do  not  even  bow  down  in  the  house  of  Rimmon." 
Thus  laboring  early  and  late,  with  heart,  and  hand,  and 
strength,  she  saw  but  little  of  Doro,  save  at  meals  and  through 
his  one  hour  of  listless  study ;  but  the  hidden  hope  was  a 
comforter,  and  she  worked  and  trusted  on.  There  was  one 
little  gleam  of  light :  he  had  begun  to  play  again  on  his  guitar, 
softly,  furtively,  and  as  it  were  in  secret.  But  she  heard  him, 
and  was  cheered. 

One  evening,  toiling  home  through  the  white  sand  after  a 
late  music-lesson,  laden  with  a  bag  of  flour  which  she  would 
not  trust  Viny  to  buy,  she  heard  a  girl's  voice  singing.  It 
was  a  plaintive,  monotonous  air  that  she  sang,  simple  as  a 
Gregorian  chant ;  but  her  voice  was  a  velvet  contralto,  as  full 
of  rich  tones  as  a  peach  is  full  of  lusciousness.  The  con- 
tralto voice  is  like  the  violoncello. 

"  The  voice  is  not  bad,"  thought  Miss  Elisabetha,  listening 
critically,  "  but  there  is  a  certain  element  of  the  sauvage  in 
it.  No  lady,  no  person  of  culture,  would  permit  herself  to 
sing  in  that  way ;  it  must  be  one  of  the  Minorcans." 

Still,  in  spite  of  prejudices,  the  music  in  her  turned  her 
steps  toward  the  voice  ;  her  slippers  made  no  sound,  and  she 
found  it.  A  young  girl,  a  Minorcan,  sat  under  a  bower  of 
jasmine,  leaning  back  against  her  lover's  breast;  her  dark 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  evening  star,  and  she  sang  as  the  bird 
sings,  naturally,  unconsciously,  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  sing- 
ing. She  was  a  pretty  child.  Miss  Elisabetha  knew  her  well 
— Catalina,  one  of  a  thriftless,  olive-skinned  family  down  in 
the  town.  "  Not  fourteen,  and  a  lover  already,"  thought  the 
old  maid  with  horror.  "  Would  it  be  of  any  use,  I  wonder,  if 
I  spoke  to  her  mother  ?  "  Here  the  lover — the  Paul  of  this  Vir- 
ginia— moved,  and  the  shadows  slid  off  his  face  ;  it  was  Doro  ! 


MISS  ELISABETHA.  101 

Alone  in  her  chamber  sat  Miss  Elisabetha.  Days  had 
passed,  but  of  no  avail.  Even  now  the  boy  was  gone  to  the 
tumble-down  house  in  the  village  where  Catalina's  little  broth- 
ers and  sisters  swarmed  out  of  doors  and  windows,  and  the 
brown,  broad  mother  bade  him  welcome  with  a  hearty  slap 
on  the  shoulder.  She  had  tried  everything — argument,  en- 
treaty, anger,  grief — and  failed  ;  there  remained  now  only  the 
secret,  the  secret  of  years,  of  much  toil  and  many  pains.  The 
money  was  not  yet  sufficient  for  two ;  so  be  it.  She  would 
stay  herself,  and  work  on ;  but  he  should  go.  Before  long 
she  would  hear  his  step,  perhaps  not  until  late,  for  those  peo- 
ple had  no  settled  hours  (here  a  remembrance  of  all  their 
ways  made  her  shudder),  but  come  he  would  in  time ;  this 
was  still  his  home.  At  midnight  she  heard  the  footfall,  and 
opening  the  door  called  gently,  "  Theodore,  Theodore."  The 
youth  came,  but  slowly.  Many  times  had  she  called  him 
lately,  and  he  was  weary  of  the  strife.  Had  he  not  told  her 
all — the  girl  singing  as  she  passed,  her  voice  haunting  him, 
his  search  for  her,  and  her  smile ;  their  meetings  in  the  cha- 
parral, where  she  sang  to  him  by  the  hour,  and  then,  naturally 
as  the  bud  opens,  their  love  ?  It  seemed  to  him  an  all-suffi- 
cient story,  and  he  could  not  understand  the  long  debates. 

"And  the  golden-haired  woman,"  Miss  Elisabetha  had 
said ;  "  she  sang  to  you  too,  Theodore." 

"  I  had  forgotten  her,  aunt,"  replied  the  youth  simply. 

So  he  came  but  slowly.  This  time,  however,  the  voice 
was  gentle,  and  there  was  no  anger  in  the  waiting  eyes.  She 
told  him  all  as  he  sat  there :  the  story  of  his  father,  who  was 
once  her  friend,  she  said  with  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice,  the 
death  of  the  young  widowed  mother,  her  own  coming  to  this 
far  Southern  land,  and  her  long  labors  for  him.  Then  she 
drew  a  picture  of  the  bright  future  opening  before  him,  and 
bringing  forth  the  bag  showed  him  its  contents,  the  savings 
and  earnings  of  seventeen  years,  tied  in  packages  with  the 
contents  noted  on  their  labels.  "  All  is  for  you,  dear  child," 
she  said,  "  for  you  are  still  but  a  child.  Take  it  and  go.  I 


102  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

had  planned  to  accompany  you,  but  I  give  that  up  for  the 
present.  I  will  remain  and  see  to  the  sale  of  everything  here, 
and  then  I  will  join  you — that  is,  if  you  wish  it,  dear.  Per- 
haps you  will  enjoy  traveling  alone,  and — and  I  have  plenty 
of  friends  to  whom  I  can  go,  and  shall  be  quite  content,  dear 
— quite  content." 

"  Where  is  it  that  you  wish  me  to  go,  aunt  ?  "  asked  Doro 
coldly.  They  were  going  over  the  same  ground,  then,  after  all. 

"  Abroad,  dear — abroad,  to  all  the  great  cities  of  the  world," 
said  the  aunt,  faltering  a  little  as  she  met  his  eyes.  "  You  are 
well  educated,  Theodore ;  I  have  taught  you  myself.  You  are 
a  gentleman's  son,  and  I  have  planned  for  you  a  life  suited  to 
your  descent.  I  have  written  to  my  cousins  in  Amsterdam  ; 
they  have  never  seen  me,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  name  they 
will — O  my  boy,  my  darling,  tell  me  that  you  will  go! "  she 
burst  forth,  breaking  into  entreaty  as  she  read  his  face. 

But  Doro  shook  off  her  hands.  "  Aunt,"  he  said,  rising, 
"  why  will  you  distress  yourself  thus  ?  I  shall  marry  Catalina, 
and  you  know  it ;  have  I  not  told  you  so  ?  Let  us  speak  no 
more  on  the  subject.  As  to  the  money,  I  care  not  for  it ; 
keep  it."  And  he  turned  toward  the  door  as  if  to  end  the 
discussion.  But  Miss  Elisabetha  followed  and  threw  herself 
on  her  knees  before  him. 

"  Child  !  "  she  cried,  "  give  me,  give  yourself  a  little  delay ; 
only  that,  a  little  delay.  Take  the  money — go ;  and  if  at  the 
end  of  the  year  your  mind  is  still  the  same,  I  will  say  not  one 
word,  no,  not  one,  against  it.  She  is  but  young,  too  young  to 
marry.  O  my  boy,  for  whom  I  have  labored,  for  whom  I  have 
planned,  for  whom  I  have  prayed,  will  you  too  forsake  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  aunt,"  replied  Doro ;  "  I  mean  you  to 
live  with  us  always  "  ;  and  with  his  strong  young  arms  he  half 
led,  half  carried  her  back  to  her  arm-chair.  She  sat  speech- 
less. To  live  with  them  always — with  them  !  Words  surged 
to  her  lips  in  a  flood — then,  as  she  met  his  gaze,  surged  back 
to  her  heart  again.  There  was  that  in  the  expression  of  his 
face  which  told  her  all  words  were  vain  ;  the  placid,  far-away 


MISS  ELISABETHA.  103 

look,  unmoved  in  spite  of  her  trouble,  silenced  argument  and 
killed  hope.  As  well  attack  a  creamy  summer  cloud  with 
axes  ;  as  well  attempt  to  dip  up  the  ocean  with  a  cup.  She 
saw  it  all  in  a  flash,  as  one  sees  years  of  past  life  in  the  mo- 
ment before  drowning;  and  she  was  drowning,  poor  soul! 
Yet  Doro  saw  nothing,  felt  nothing,  save  that  his  aunt  was 
growing  into  an  old  woman  with  foolish  fancies,  and  that  he 
himself  was  sleepy.  And  then  he  fell  to  thinking  of  his  love, 
and  all  her  enchanting  ways — her  little  angers  and  quick  re- 
pentances, the  shoulder  turned  away  in  pretended  scorn,  and 
the  sudden  waves  of  tenderness  that  swept  him  into  paradise. 
So  he  stood  dreaming,  while  tearless,  silent  Miss  Elisabetha 
sat  before  her  broken  hopes.  At  last  Doro,  coming  back  to 
reality,  murmured,  "  Aunt,  you  will  like  her  when  you  know 
her  better,  and  she  will  take  good  care  of  you." 

But  the  aunt  only  shuddered. 

"Theodore,  Theodore!"  she  cried,  "will  you  break  my 
heart  ?  Shall  the  son  of  Petrus  Oesterand  marry  so  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  '  so,'  aunt.  All  men 
marry,  and  why  not  I  ?  I  never  knew  my  father ;  but,  if  he 
were  here,  I  feel  sure  he  would  see  Catalina  with  my  eyes. 
Certainly,  in  all  my  life,  I  have  never  seen  a  face  so  fair,  or 
eyes  so  lustrous." 

"  Child,  you  have  seen  nothing — nothing.  But  I  intended, 
Heaven  knows  I  intended — " 

"  It  makes  no  difference  now,  aunt ;  do  not  distress  your- 
self about  it." 

"  Theodore,  I  have  loved  you  long — your  youth  has  not 
been  an  unhappy  one  ;  will  you,  for  my  sake,  go  for  this  one 
year  ?  "  she  pleaded,  with  quivering  lips. 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  with  a  half  smile. 

"  Dear  aunt,"  he  said  gently,  "  pray  say  no  more.  I  do 
not  care  to  see  the  world  ;  I  am  satisfied  here.  As  to  Cata- 
lina, I  love  her.  Is  not  that  enough  ?  "  He  bent  and  kissed 
her  cold  forehead,  and  then  went  away  to  his  happy  dreams  ; 
and,  if  he  thought  of  her  at  all  as  he  lingered  in  the  soft  twi- 


104  MISS  ELISABETHA. 

light  that  comes  before  sleep,  it  was  only  to  wonder  over  her 
distress — a  wonder  soon  indolently  comforted  by  the  belief 
that  she  would  be  calm  and  reasonable  in  the  morning.  But, 
across  the  hall,  a  gray  old  woman  sat,  her  money  beside  her, 
and  the  hands  that  had  earned  it  idle  in  her  lap.  God  keep 
us  from  such  a  vigil ! 

And  did  she  leave  him  ?  No  ;  not  even  when  the  "  him  " 
became  "  them." 

The  careless  young  wife,  knowing  nothing  save  how  to 
love,  queened  it  right  royally  over  the  old  house,  and  the  little 
brown  brothers  and  sisters  ran  riot  through  every  room.  The 
piano  was  soon  broken  by  the  ignorant  hands  that  sounded 
its  chords  at  random  ;  but  only  Doro  played  on  it  now,  and 
nothing  pleased  him  so  well  as  to  improvise  melodies  from 
the  plaintive  Minorcan  songs  the  little  wife  sang  in  her  velvet 
voice.  Years  passed;  the  money  was  all  spent,  and  the 
house  full — a  careless,  idle,  ignorant,  happy  brood,  asking  for 
nothing,  planning  not  at  all,  working  not  at  all,  but  loving 
each  other  in  their  own  way,  contented  to  sit  in  the  sunshine, 
and  laugh,  and  eat,  and  sing,  all  the  day  long.  The  tall,  gaunt 
figure  that  came  and  wrent  among  them,  laboring  ceaselessly, 
striving  always  against  the  current,  they  regarded  with  toler- 
ating eyes  as  a  species  differing  from  theirs,  but  good  in  its 
way,  especially  for  work.  The  children  loved  the  still  silent 
old  woman,  and  generously  allowed  her  to  take  care  of  them 
until  she  tried  to  teach  them  ;  then  away  they  flew  like  wild 
birds  of  the  forest,  and  not  one  learned  more  than  the  alpha- 
bet. 

Doro  died  first,  a  middle-aged  man ;  gently  he  passed 
away  without  pain,  without  a  care.  "  You  have  been  very 
good  to  me,  aunt ;  my  life  has  been  a  happy  one  ;  I  have  had 
nothing  to  wish  for,"  he  murmured,  as  she  bent  to  catch  the 
last  look  from  his  dying  eyes. 

He  was  gone ;  and  she  bore  on  the  burden  he  had  left  to 
her.  I  saw  her  last  year — an  old,  old  woman,  but  working  still. 


OLD  GARDISTON. 


One  by  one  they  died— 

Last  of  all  their  race  ; 
Nothing  left  but  pride, 

Lace  and  buckled  hose  ; 
Their  quietus  made, 

On  their  dwelling-place 
Ruthless  hands  are  laid  : 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

Many  a  bride  has  stood 

In  yon  spacious  room  ; 
Here  her  hand  was  wooed 

Underneath  the  rose ; 
O'er  that  sill  the  dead 

Reached  the  family  tomb  ; 
All  that  were  have  fled— 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


OLD  GARDISTON  was  a  manor-house  down  in  the  rice- 
lands,  six  miles  from  a  Southern  seaport.  It  had  been 
called  Old  Gardiston  for  sixty  or  seventy  years,  which 
showed  that  it  must  have  belonged  to  colonial  days,  since 
no  age  under  that  of  a  century  could  have  earned  for  it 
that  honorable  title  in  a  neighborhood  where  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence  was  still  considered  an  event  of  com- 
paratively modern  times.  The  war  was  over,  and  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house,  Miss  Margaretta  Gardiston,  lay  buried  in 
St.  Mark's  churchyard,  near  by.  The  little  old  church  had 
long  been  closed;  the  very  road  to  its  low  stone  doorway 
was  overgrown,  and  a  second  forest  had  grown  up  around 
it;  but  the  churchyard  was  still  open  to  those  of  the  dead 


io6  OLD  GARDISTON. 

who  had  a  right  there ;  and  certainly  Miss  Margaretta  had 
this  right,  seeing  that  father,  grandfather,  and  great-grand- 
father all  lay  buried  there,  and  their  memorial  tablets,  quaint- 
ly emblazoned,  formed  a  principal  part  of  the  decorations  of 
the  ancient  little  sanctuary  in  the  wilderness.  There  was  no 
one  left  at  Old  Gardiston  now  save  Cousin  Copeland  and 
Gardis  Duke,  a  girl  of  seventeen  years,  Miss  Margaretta's 
niece  and  heir.  Poor  little  Gardis,  having  been  born  a  girl 
when  she  should  have  been  a  boy,  was  christened  with  the 
family  name — a  practice  not  uncommon  in  some  parts  of  the 
South,  where  English  customs  of  two  centuries  ago  still  retain 
their  hold  with  singular  tenacity ;  but  the  three  syllables  were 
soon  abbreviated  to  two  for  common  use,  and  the  child  grew 
up  with  the  quaint  name  of  Gardis. 

They  were  at  breakfast  now,  the  two  remaining  members 
of  the  family,  in  the  marble-floored  dining-room.  The  latticed 
windows  were  open ;  birds  were  singing  outside,  and  roses 
blooming  •  a  flood  of  sunshine  lit  up  every  corner  of  the  apart- 
ment, showing  its  massive  Chinese  vases,  its  carved  ivory 
ornaments,  its  hanging  lamp  of  curious  shape,  and  its  spindle- 
legged  sideboard,  covered  with  dark-colored  plates  and  plat- 
ters ornamented  with  dark-blue  dragons  going  out  to  walk, 
and  crocodiles  circling  around  fantastically  roofed  temples  as 
though  they  were  waiting  for  the  worshipers  to  come  out  in 
order  to  make  a  meal  of  them.  But,  in  spite  of  these  acces- 
sories, the  poor  old  room  was  but  a  forlorn  place  :  the  marble 
flooring  was  sunken  and  defaced,  portions  were  broken  into 
very  traps  for  unwary  feet,  and  its  ancient  enemy,  the  pene- 
trating dampness,  had  finally  conquered  the  last  resisting 
mosaic,  and  climbed  the  walls,  showing  in  blue  and  yellow 
streaks  on  the  old-fashioned  moldings.  There  had  been  no 
fire  in  the  tiled  fireplace  for  many  years ;  Miss  Margaretta 
did  not  approve  of  fires,  and  wood  was  costly :  this  last  rea- 
son, however,  was  never  mentioned ;  and  Gardis  had  grown 
into  a  girl  of  sixteen  before  she  knew  the  comfort  of  the 
sparkling  little  fires  that  shine  on  the  hearths  morning  and 


OLD   GARDISTON. 


107 


evening-  during  the  short  winters  in  well-appointed  Southern 
homes.  At  that  time  she  had  spent  a  few  days  in  the  city 
with  some  family  friends  who  had  come  out  of  the  war  with 
less  impoverishment  than  their  neighbors.  Miss  Margaretta 
did  not  approve  of  them  exactly ;  it  was  understood  that  all 
Southerners  of  "  our  class  "  were  "  impoverished."  She  did 
not  refuse  the  cordial  invitation  in  toto,  but  she  sent  for  Gar- 
dis  sooner  than  was  expected,  and  set  about  carefully  remov- 
ing from  the  girl's  mind  any  wrong  ideas  that  might  have 
made  a  lodgment  there.  And  Gardis,  warmly  loving  her  aunt, 
and  imbued  with  all  the  family  pride  from  her  birth,  imme- 
diately cast  from  her  the  bright  little  comforts  she  had  met  in 
the  city  as  plebeian,  and,  going  up  stairs  to  the  old  drawing- 
room,  dusted  the  relics  enshrined  there  with  a  new  rever- 
ence for  them,  glorifying  herself  in  their  undoubted  antiquity. 
Fires,  indeed  !  Certainly  not. 

The  breakfast-table  was  spread  with  snowy  damask,  worn 
thin  almost  to  gossamer,  and  fairly  embroidered  with  delicate 
darning ;  the  cups  and  plates  belonged  to  the  crocodile  set, 
and  the  meager  repast  was  at  least  daintily  served.  Cousin 
Copeland  had  his  egg,  and  Gardis  satisfied  her  young  appetite 
with  fish  caught  in  the  river  behind  the  house  by  Pompey,  and 
a  fair  amount  of  Dinah's  corn-bread.  The  two  old  slaves  had 
refused  to  leave  Gardiston  House.  They  had  been  trained  all 
their  lives  by  Miss  Margaretta  ;  and  now  that  she  was  gone, 
they  took  pride  in  keeping  the  expenses  of  the  table,  as  she 
had  kept  them,  reduced  to  as  small  a  sum  as  possible,  know- 
ing better  than  poor  Gardis  herself  the  pitiful  smallness  of  the 
family  income,  derived  solely  from  the  rent  of  an  old  ware- 
house in  the  city.  For  the  war  had  not  impoverished  Gardis- 
ton House  ;  it  was  impoverished  long  before.  Acre  by  acre 
the  land  had  gone,  until  nothing  was  left  save  a  small  corn- 
field and  the  flower-garden  ;  piece  by  piece  the  silver  had 
vanished,  until  nothing  was  left  save  three  teaspoons,  three 
tablespoons,  and  four  forks.  The  old  warehouse  had  brought 
in  little  rent  during  those  four  long  years,  and  they  had  fared 


io8  OLD  GARDISTON. 

hardly  at  Gardiston.  Still,  in  their  isolated  situation  away 
from  the  main  roads,  their  well-known  poverty  a  safeguard, 
they  had  not  so  much  as  heard  a  drum  or  seen  a  uniform, 
blue  or  gray,  and  this  was  a  rare  and  fortunate  exemption  in 
those  troublous  times  ;  and  when  the  war  was  at  last  ended, 
Miss  Margaretta  found  herself  no  poorer  than  she  was  before, 
with  this  great  advantage  added,  that  now  everybody  was 
poor,  and,  indeed,  it  was  despicable  to  be  anything  else.  She 
bloomed  out  into  a  new  cheerfulness  under  this  congenial 
state  of  things,  and  even  invited  one  or  two  contemporaries 
still  remaining  on  the  old  plantations  in  the  neighborhood  to 
spend  several  days  at  Gardiston.  Two  ancient  dames  accepted 
the  invitation,  and  the  state  the  three  kept  together  in  the  old 
drawing-room  under  the  family  portraits,  the  sweep  of  their 
narrow-skirted,  old-fashioned  silk  gowns  on  the  inlaid  stair- 
case when  they  went  down  to  dinner,  the  supreme  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  break-neck  condition  of  the  marble  flooring 
and  the  mold-streaked  walls,  the  airy  way  in  which  they  drank 
their  tea  out  of  the  crocodile  cups,  and  told  little  stories  of 
fifty  years  before,  filled  Gardis  with  admiring  respect.  She 
sat,  as  it  were,  in  the  shadow  of  their  greatness,  and  obedient- 
ly ate  only  of  those  dishes  that  required  a  fork,  since  the  three 
spoons  were,  of  course,  in  use.  During  this  memorable  visit 
Cousin  Copeland  was  always  "engaged  in  his  study"  at 
meal-times;  but  in  the  evening  he  appeared,  radiant  and 
smiling,  and  then  the  four  played  whist  together  on  the  Chi- 
nese table,  and  the  ladies  fanned  themselves  with  stately 
grace,  while  Cousin  Copeland  dealt  not  only  the  cards, 
but  compliments  also — both  equally  old-fashioned  and  well 
preserved. 

But  within  this  first  year  of  peace  Miss  Margaretta  had  died 
— an  old  lady  of  seventy-five,  but  bright  and  strong  as  a  winter 
apple.  Gardis  and  Cousin  Copeland,  left  alone,  moved  on  in 
the  same  way :  it  was  the  only  way  they  knew.  Cousin  Cope- 
land  lived  only  in  the  past,  Gardis  in  the  present ;  and  indeed 
the  future,  so  anxiously  considered  always  by  the  busy,  rest- 


OLD  GARDISTON. 


109 


less  Northern  mind,  has  never  been  lifted  into  the  place  of 
supreme  importance  at  the  South. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  Gardis  went  up  stairs  into  the 
drawing-room.  Cousin  Copeland,  remarking,  in  his  busy 
little  way',  that  he  had  important  work  awaiting  him,  retired 
to  his  study — a  round  room  in  the  tower,  where,  at  an  old 
desk  with  high  back  full  of  pigeon-holes,  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed for  years  to  labor  during  a  portion  of  the  day  over 
family  documents  a  century  or  two  old,  recopying  them  with 
minute  care,  adding  foot-notes,  and  references  leading  back 
by  means  of  red-ink  stars  to  other  documents,  and  appending 
elaborately  phrased  little  comments  neatly  signed  in  flourishes 
with  his  initials  and  the  date,  such  as  "  Truly  a  doughty  deed. 
C.  B.  G.  1852." — "  '  Worthy,'  quotha  ?  Nay,  it  seemeth  unto 
my  poor  comprehension  a  marvelous  kindness  !  C.  B.  G. 
1856."— "May  we  all  profit  by  this!  C.  B.  G.  1858." 

This  morning,  as  usual,  Gardis  donned  her  gloves,  threw 
open  the  heavy  wooden  shutters,  and,  while  the  summer 
morning  sunshine  flooded  the  room,  she  moved  from  piece  to 
piece  of  the  old  furniture,  carefully  dusting  it  all.  The  room 
was  large  and  lofty ;  there  was  no  carpet  on  the  inlaid  floor, 
but  a  tapestry  rug  lay  under  the  table  in  the  center  of  the 
apartment ;  everything  was  spindle-legged,  chairs,  tables,  the 
old  piano,  two  cabinets,  a  sofa,  a  card-table,  and  two  little 
tabourets  embroidered  in  Scriptural  scenes,  reduced  now  to 
shadows,  Joseph  and  his  wicked  brethren  having  faded  to  the 
same  dull  yellow  hue,  which  Gardis  used  to  think  was  not  the 
discrimination  that  should  have  been  shown  between  the  just 
and  the  unjust.  The  old  cabinets  were  crowded  with  curious 
little  Chinese  images  and  vases,  and  on  the  high  mantel  were 
candelabra  with  more  crocodiles  on  them,  and  a  large  mirror 
which  had  so  long  been  veiled  in  gauze  that  Gardis  had  never 
fairly  seen  the  fat,  gilt  cherubs  that  surrounded  it.  A  few 
inches  of  wax-candle  still  remained  in  the  candelabra,  but 
they  were  never  lighted,  a  tallow  substitute  on  the  table  serv- 
ing as  a  nucleus  during  the  eight  months  of  warm  weather 


no  OLD  GARDISTON. 

when  the  evenings  were  spent  in  the  drawing-room.  When 
it  was  really  cold,  a  fire  was  kindled  in  the  boudoir — a  narrow 
chamber  in  the  center  of  the  large  rambling  old  mansion, 
where,  with  closed  doors  and  curtained  windows,  the  three 
sat  together,  Cousin  Copeland  reading  aloud,  generally  from 
the  "  Spectator,"  often  pausing  to  jot  down  little  notes  as  they 
occurred  to  him  in  his  orderly  memorandum-book — "mere 
outlines  of  phrases,  but  sufficiently  full  to  recall  the  desired 
train  of  thought,"  he  observed.  The  ladies  embroidered,  Miss 
Margaretta  sitting  before  the  large  frame  she  had  used  when 
a  girl.  They  did  all  the  sewing  for  the  household  (very  little 
new  material,  and  much  repairing  of  old),  but  these  domestic 
labors  were  strictly  confined  to  the  privacy  of  their  own  apart- 
ments ;  in  the  drawing-room  or  boudoir  they  always  embroid- 
ered. Gardis  remembered  this  with  sadness  as  she  removed 
the  cover  from  the  large  frame,  and  glanced  at  "  Moses  in  the 
Bulrushes,"  which  her  inexperienced  hand  could  never  hope 
to  finish  ;  she  was  thinking  of  her  aunt,  but  any  one  else  would 
have  thought  of  the  bulrushes,  which  were  now  pink,  now 
saffron,  and  now  blue,  after  some  mediaeval  system  of  floss- 
silk  vegetation. 

Having  gone  all  around  the  apartment  and  dusted  every- 
thing, Chinese  images  and  all,  Gardis  opened  the  old  piano 
and  gently  played  a  little  tune.  Miss  Margaretta  had  been 
her  only  teacher,  and  the  young  girl's  songs  were  old-fash- 
ioned ;  but  the  voice  was  sweet  and  full,  and  before  she  knew 
it  she  was  filling  the  house  with  her  melody. 

"  Little  Cupid  one  day  in  a  myrtle-bough  strayed, 
And  among  the  sweet  blossoms  he  playfully  played, 
Plucking  many  a  sweet  from  the  boughs  of  the  tree, 
Till  he  felt  that  his  finger  was  stung  by  a  bee," 

sang  Gardis,  and  went  on  blithely  through  the  whole,  giving 
Mother  Venus's  advice  archly,  and  adding  a  shower  of  impro- 
vised trills  at  the  end. 


OLD  GARDISTON.  m 

"  Bravo  !  "  said  a  voice  from  the  garden  below. 

Rushing  to  the  casement,  Miss  Duke  beheld,  first  with 
astonishment,  then  dismay,  two  officers  in  the  uniform  of  the 
United  States  army  standing  at  the  front  door.  They  bowed 
courteously,  and  one  of  them  said,  "  Can  I  see  the  lady  of  the 
house  ?  " 

"  I — I  am  the  lady,"  replied  Gardis,  confusedly ;  then 
drawing  back,  with  the  sudden  remembrance  that  she  should 
not  have  shown  herself  at  all,  she  ran  swiftly  up  to  the  study 
for  Cousin  Copeland.  But  Cousin  Copeland  was  not  there, 
and  the  little  mistress  remembered  with  dismay  that  old  Dinah 
was  out  in  the  corn-field,  and  that  Pompey  had  gone  fishing. 
There  was  nothing  for  it,  then,  but  to  go  down  and  face  the 
strangers.  Summoning  all  her  self-possession,  Miss  Duke 
descended.  She  would  have  preferred  to  hold  parley  from 
the  window  over  the  doorway,  like  the  ladies  of  olden  time, 
but  she  feared  it  would  not  be  dignified,  seeing  that  the  times 
were  no  longer  olden,  and  therefore  she  went  down  to  the 
entrance  where  the  two  were  awaiting  her.  "  Shall  I  ask 
them  in  ?  "  she  thought.  "  What  would  Aunt  Margaretta 
have  done  ?  "  The  Gardiston  spirit  was  hospitable  to  the 
core  ;  but  these — these  were  the  Vandals,  the  despots,  under 
whose  presence  the  whole  fair  land  was  groaning.  No  ;  she 
would  not  ask  them  in. 

The  elder  officer,  a  grave  young  man  of  thirty,  was  spokes- 
man. "  Do  I  address  Miss  Gardiston  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  am  Miss  Duke.  My  aunt,  Miss  Gardiston,  is  not  liv- 
ing," replied  Gardis. 

"Word  having  been  received  that  the  yellow  fever  has 
appeared  on  the  coast,  we  have  been  ordered  to  take  the 
troops  a  few  miles  inland  and  go  into  camp  immediately,  Miss 
Duke.  The  grove  west  of  this  house,  on  the  bank  of  the 
river,  having  been  selected  as  camping-ground  for  a  portion 
of  the  command,  we  have  called  to  say  that  you  need  feel  no 
alarm  at  the  proximity  of  the  soldiers  ;  they  will  be  under 
strict  orders  not  to  trespass  upon  your  grounds." 


112  OLD  GARDISTON. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Gardis  mechanically ;  but  she  was  alarmed ; 
they  both  saw  that. 

"  I  assure  you,  Miss  Duke,  that  there  is  not  the  slightest 
cause  for  nervousness,"  said  the  younger  officer,  bowing  as  he 
spoke. 

"And  your  servants  will  not  be  enticed  away,  either," 
added  the  other. 

"  We  have  only  two,  and  they — would  not  go,"  replied 
Gardis,  not  aggressively,  but  merely  stating  her  facts. 

The  glimmer  of  a  smile  crossed  the  face  of  the  younger 
officer,  but  the  other  remained  unmoved. 

"  My  name,  madam,  is  Newell — David  Newell,  captain 
commanding  the  company  that  will  be  encamped  here.  I 
beg  you  to  send  me  word  immediately  if  anything  occurs  to 
disturb  your  quiet,"  he  said. 

Then  the  two  saluted  the  little  mistress  with  formal  cour- 
tesy, and  departed,  walking  down  the  path  together  with  a 
quick  step  and  soldierly  bearing,  as  though  they  were  on 
parade. 

"  Ought  I  to  have  asked  them  in  ?  "  thought  Gardis  ;  and 
she  went  slowly  up  to  the  drawing-room  again  and  closed  the 
piano.  "  I  wonder  who  said  '  bravo '  ?  The  younger  one,  I 
presume."  And  she  presumed  correctly. 

At  lunch  (corn-bread  and  milk)  Cousin  Copeland's  old- 
young  face  appeared  promptly  at  the  dining-room  door. 
Cousin  Copeland,  Miss  Margaretta's  cousin,  was  a  little  old 
bachelor,  whose  thin  dark  hair  had  not  turned  gray,  and 
whose  small  bright  eyes  needed  no  spectacles ;  he  dressed 
always  in  black,  with  low  shoes  on  his  small  feet,  and  his 
clothes  seemed  never  to  wear  out,  perhaps  because  his  little 
frame  hardly  touched  them  anywhere  ;  the  cloth  certainly  was 
not  strained.  Everything  he  wore  was  so  old-fashioned,  how- 
ever, that  he  looked  like  the  pictures  of  the  high-collared, 
solemn  little  men  who,  accompanied  by  ladies  all  bonnet,  are 
depicted  in  English  Sunday-school  books  following  funeral 
processions,  generally  of  the  good  children  who  die  young. 


OLD  GARDIS  TON.  U3 

"  O  Cousin  Copeland,  where  were  you  this  morning  when 
I  went  up  to  your  study  ?  "  began  Gardis,  full  of  the  event  of 
the  morning. 

'•  You  may  well  ask  where  I  was,  my  child,"  replied  the 
bachelor,  cutting  his  toasted  corn-bread  into  squares  with 
mathematical  precision.  "A  most  interesting  discovery — 
most  interesting.  Not  being  thoroughly  satisfied  as  to  the 
exact  identity  of  the  first  wife  of  one  of  the  second  cousins  of 
our  grandfather,  a  lady  who  died  young  and  left  no  descen- 
dants, yet  none  the  less  a  Gardiston,  at  least  by  marriage,  the 
happy  idea  occurred  to  me  to  investigate  more  fully  the  con- 
tents of  the  papers  in  barrel  number  two  on  the  east  side  of 
the  central  garret — documents  that  I  myself  classified  in  1849, 
as  collateral  merely,  not  relating  to  the  main  line.  I  assure 
you,  my  child,  that  I  have  spent  there,  over  that  barrel,  a  most 
delightful  morning — most  delightful.  I  had  not  realized  that 
there  wras  so  much  interesting  matter  in  store  for  me  when  I 
shall  have  finished  the  main  line,  which  will  be,  I  think,  in 
about  a  year  and  a  half — a  year  and  a  half.  And  I  have  good 
hopes  of  finding  there,  too,  valuable  information  respecting 
this  first  wife  of  one  of  the  second  cousins  of  our  respected 
grandfather,  a  lady  whose  memory,  by  some  strange  neglect, 
has  been  suffered  to  fall  into  oblivion.  I  shall  be  proud  to 
constitute  myself  the  one  to  rescue  it  for  the  benefit  of  pos- 
terity," continued  the  little  man,  .with  chivalrous  enthusiasm, 
as  he  took  up  his  spoon.  (There  was  one  spoon  to  spare 
now;  Gardis  often  thought  of  this  with  a  saddened  heart.) 
Miss  Duke  had  not  interrupted  her  cousin  by  so  much  as  an 
impatient  glance ;  trained  to  regard  him  with  implicit  respect, 
and  to  listen  always  to  his  gentle,  busy  little  stream  of  talk, 
she  waited  until  he  had  finished  all  he  had  to  say  about  this 
"  first  wife  of  one  of  the  second  cousins  of  our  grandfather  " 
(who,  according  to  the  French  phrase-books,  she  could  not 
help  thinking,  should  have  inquired  immediately  for  the  green 
shoe  of  her  aunt's  brother-in-law's  wife)  before  she  told  her 
story.  Cousin  Copeland  shook  his  head  many  times  during 


u4  OLD  GARDISTON. 

the  recital.  He  had  not  the  bitter  feelings  of  Miss  Margaretta 
concerning  the  late  war ;  in  fact,  he  had  never  come  down 
much  farther  than  the  Revolution,  having  merely  skirmished 
a  little,  as  it  were,  with  the  war  of  1812  ;  but  he  knew  his 
cousin's  opinions,  and  respected  their  memory.  So  he  "  ear- 
nestly hoped  "  that  some  other  site  would  be  selected  for  the 
camp.  Upon  being  told  that  the  blue  army-wagons  had  al- 
ready arrived,  he  then  "  earnestly  hoped  "  that  the  encamp- 
ment would  not  be  of  long  continuance.  Cousin  Copeland 
had  hoped  a  great  many  things  during  his  life ;  his  capacity 
for  hoping  was  cheering  and  unlimited ;  a  hope  carefully 
worded  and  delivered  seemed  to  him  almost  the  same  thing 
as  reality ;  he  made  you  a  present  of  it,  and  rubbed  his  little 
hands  cheerfully  afterward,  as  though  now  all  had  been  said. 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  have  asked  them  in  ?  "  said  Gar- 
dis,  hesitatingly. 

"  Most  certainly,  most  certainly.  Hospitality  has  ever 
been  one  of  our  characteristics  as  a  family,"  said  Cousin 
Copeland,  finishing  the  last  spoonful  of  milk,  which  had  come 
out  exactly  even  with  the  last  little  square  of  corn-bread. 

"  But  I  did  not  ask  them." 

"  Do  I  hear  you  aright  ?  You  did  not  ask  them,  Cousin 
Gardiston  ?  "  said  the  little  bachelor,  pausing  gravely  by  the 
table,  one  hand  resting  on  its  shining  mahogany,  the  other 
extended  in  the  attitude  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,  Cousin  Copeland,  you  do.  But  these  are  officers  of 
the  United  States  army,  and  you  know  Aunt  Margaretta's 
feelings  regarding  them." 

"  True,"  said  Cousin  Copeland,  dropping  his  arm  ;  "  you 
are  right ;  I  had  forgotten.  But  it  is  a  very  sad  state  of 
things,  my  dear — very  sad.  It  was  not  so  in  the  old  days  at 
Gardiston  House  :  then  we  should  have  invited  them  to  din- 
ner." 

"  We  could  not  do  that,"  said  Gardis  thoughtfully,  "  on 
account  of  forks  and  spoons  ;  there  would  not  be  enough  to 
go —  But  I  would  not  invite  them  anyway,"  she  added,  the 


OLD  GARDIS  TON.  115 

color  rising  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  flashing.  "  Are  they 
not  our  enemies,  and  the  enemies  of  our  country  ?  Vandals  ? 
Despots  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Cousin  Copeland,  escaping  from  these 
signs  of  feminine  disturbance  with  gentle  haste.  Long  be- 
fore, he  was  accustomed  to  remark  to  a  bachelor  friend  that 
an  atmosphere  of  repose  was  best  adapted  to  his  constitution 
and  to  his  work.  He  therefore  now  retired  to  the  first  wife 
of  the  second  cousin  of  his  grandfather,  and  speedily  forgot 
all  about  the  camp  and  the  officers.  Not  so  Gardis.  Putting 
on  her  straw  hat,  she  went  out  into  the  garden  to  attend  to 
her  flowers  and  work  off  her  annoyance.  Was  it  annoyance, 
or  excitement  merely  ?  She  did  not  know.  But  she  did  know 
that  the  grove  was  full  of  men  and  tents,  and  she  could  see 
several  of  the  blue-coats  fishing  in  the  river.  "  Very  well," 
she  said  to  herself  hotly  ;  "  we  shall  have  no  dinner,  then  !  " 
But  the  river  was  not  hers,  and  so  she  went  on  clipping  the 
roses,  and  tying  back  the  vines  all  the  long  bright  afternoon, 
until  old  Dinah  came  to  call  her  to  dinner.  As  she  went,  the 
bugle  sounded  from  the  grove,  and  she  seemed  to  be  obeying 
its  summons  ;  instantly  she  sat  down  on  a  bench  to  wait  until 
its  last  echo  had  died  away.  "  I  foresee  that  I  shall  hate  that 
bugle,"  she  said  to  herself. 

The  blue-coats  were  encamped  in  the  grove  three  long 
months.  Captain  Newell  and  the  lieutenant,  Roger  Saxton, 
made  no  more  visits  at  Gardiston  House ;  but,  when  they 
passed  by  and  saw  the  little  mistress  in  the  garden  or  at  the 
window,  they  saluted  her  with  formal  courtesy.  And  the 
lieutenant  looked  back ;  yes,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that — the 
lieutenant  certainly  looked  back,  Saxton  was  a  handsome 
youth  ;  tall  and  finely  formed,  he  looked  well  in  his  uniform, 
and  knew  it.  Captain  Newell  was  not  so  tall — a  gray-eyed, 
quiet  young  man.  "  Commonplace,"  said  Miss  Gardis.  The 
bugle  still  gave  forth  its  silvery  summons.  "  It  is  insupport- 
able," said  the  little  mistress  daily;  and  daily  Cousin  Copeland 
replied,  "  Certainly."  But  the  bugle  sounded  on  all  the  same. 


ii6  OLD  GARDISTON. 

One  day  a  deeper  wrath  came.  Miss  Duke  discovered 
Dinah  in  the  act  of  taking  cakes  to  the  camp  to  sell  to  the 
soldiers ! 

"  Well,  Miss  Gardis,  dey  pays  me  well  for  it,  and  we's 
next  to  not 'ing  laid  up  for  de  winter,"  replied  the  old  woman 
anxiously,  as  the  irate  little  mistress  forbade  the  sale  of  so 
much  as  "  one  kernel  of  corn." 

"  Dey  don't  want  de  corn,  but  dey  pays  well  for  de  cakes, 
dearie  Miss  Gardis.  Yer  see,  yer  don't  know  not 'ing  about 
it ;  it's  only  ole  Dinah  makin'  a  little  money  for  herself  and 
Pomp,"  pleaded  the  faithful  creature,  who  would  have  given 
her  last  crumb  for  the  family,  and  died  content.  But  Gardis 
sternly  forbade  all  dealings  with  the  camp  from  that  time 
forth,  and  then  she  went  up  to  her  room  and  cried  like  a  child. 
"  They  knew  it,  of  course,"  she  thought ;  "  no  doubt  they 
have  had  many  a  laugh  over  the  bakery  so  quietly  carried  on 
at  Gardiston  House.  They  are  capable  of  supposing  even 
that  /  sanctioned  it."  And  with  angry  tears  she  fell  to  plan- 
ning how  she  could  best  inform  them  of  their  mistake,  and 
overwhelm  them  with  her  scorn.  She  prepared  several  crush- 
ing little  speeches,  and  held  them  in  reserve  for  use ;  but  the 
officers  never  came  to  Gardiston  House,  and  of  course  she 
never  went  to  the  camp — no,  nor  so  much  as  looked  that  way ; 
so  there  was  no  good  opportunity  for  delivering  them.  One 
night,  however,  the  officers  did  come  to  Gardiston  House — 
not  only  the  officers,  but  all  the  men  ;  and  Miss  Duke  was 
very  glad  to  see  them. 

It  happened  in  this  way.  The  unhappy  State  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  double-faced,  conscienceless  whites,  who 
used  the  newly  enfranchised  blacks  as  tools  for  their  evil  pur- 
poses. These  leaders  were  sometimes  emigrant  Northerners, 
sometimes  renegade  Southerners,  but  always  rascals.  In  the 
present  case  they  had  inflamed  their  ignorant  followers  to 
riotous  proceedings  in  the  city,  and  the  poor  blacks,  fancying 
that  the  year  of  jubilee  had  come,  when  each  man  was  to 
have  a  plantation,  naturally  began  by  ejecting  the  resident 


OLD   GARDISTON.  117 

owners  before  the  grand  division  of  spoils.  At  least  this  was 
their  idea.  During  the  previous  year,  when  the  armies  were 
still  marching  through  the  land,  they  had  gone  out  now  and 
then  in  a  motiveless  sort  of  way  and  burned  the  fine  planta- 
tion residences  near  the  city  ;  and  now,  chance  having  brought 
Gardiston  to  their  minds,  out  they  came,  inconsequent  and 
reasonless  as  ever,  to  burn  Gardiston.  But  they  did  not  know 
the  United  States  troops  were  there. 

There  was  a  siege  of  ten  minutes,  two  or  three  volleys 
from  the  soldiers,  and  then  a  disorderly  retreat ;  one  or  two 
wounded  were  left  on  the  battle-field  (Miss  Duke's  flower- 
garden),  and  the  dining-room  windows  were  broken.  Beyond 
this  there  was  no  slaughter,  and  the  victors  drew  off  their 
forces  in  good  order  to  the  camp,  leaving  the  officers  to  re- 
ceive the  thanks  of  the  household — Cousin  Copeland,  envel- 
oped in  a  mammoth  dressing-gown  that  had  belonged  to  his 
grandfather,  and  Gardis,  looking  distractingly  pretty  in  a  has- 
tily donned  short  skirt  and  a  little  white  sack  (she  had  no 
dressing-gown),  with  her  brown  hair  waving  over  her  shoul- 
ders, and  her  cheeks  scarlet  from  excitement.  Roger  Saxton 
fell  into  love  on  the  spot :  hitherto  he  had  only  hovered,  as  it 
were,  on  the  border. 

"  Had  you  any  idea  she  was  so  exquisitely  beautiful  ?  "  he 
exclaimed,  as  they  left  the  old  house  in  the  gray  light  of 
dawn. 

"  Miss  Duke  is  not  exquisitely  beautiful ;  she  is  not  even 
beautiful,"  replied  the  slow-voiced  Newell.  "  She  has  the 
true  Southern  colorless,  or  rather  cream-colored,  complexion, 
and  her  features  are  quite  irregular." 

"  Colorless  !  I  never  saw  more  beautiful  coloring  in  my 
life  than  she  had  to-night,"  exclaimed  Saxton. 

"  To-night,  yes  ;  I  grant  that.  But  it  took  a  good-sized 
riot  to  bring  it  to  the  surface,"  replied  the  impassive  captain. 

A  guard  was  placed  around  the  house  at  night  and  pickets 
sent  down  the  road  for  some  time  after  this  occurrence.  Gar- 
dis, a  prey  to  conflicting  feelings,  deserted  her  usual  haunts 


u8  OLD  GARDISTON. 

and  shut  herself  up  in  her  own  room,  thinking,  thinking  what 
she  ought  to  do.  In  the  mean  time,  beyond  a  formal  note  of 
inquiry  delivered  daily  by  a  wooden-faced  son  of  Mars,  the 
two  officers  made  no  effort  toward  a  further  acquaintance ; 
the  lieutenant  was  on  fire  to  attempt  it,  but  the  captain  held 
him  back.  "  It  is  her  place  to  make  the  advances  now,"  he 
said. .  It  was  ;  and  Gardis  knew  it. 

One  morning  she  emerged  from  her  retreat,  and  with  a 
decided  step  sought  Cousin  Copeland  in  his  study.  The  little 
man  had  been  disquieted  by  the  night  attack ;  it  had  come  to 
him  vaguely  once  or  twice  since  then  that  perhaps  there 
might  be  other  things  to  do  in  the  world  besides  copying 
family  documents  ;  but  the  nebula — it  was  not  even  a  definite 
thought — had  faded,  and  now  he  was  at  work  again  with 
more  ardor  than  ever. 

"  Cousin  Copeland,"  said  Gardis,  appearing  at  the  door  of 
the  study,  "  I  have  decided  at  last  to  yield  to  your  wishes,  and 
— and  invite  the  officers  to  dinner." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Cousin  Copeland,  putting  down  his 
pen  and  waving  his  hands  with  a  hearty  little  air  of  acquies- 
cence— "  by  all  means."  It  was  not  until  long  afterward  that 
he  remembered  he  had  never  expressed  any  wish  upon  the 
subject  whatever.  But  it  suited  Gardis  to  imagine  that  he 
had  done  so  ;  so  she  imagined  it. 

"  We  have  little  to  work  with,"  continued  the  little  mis- 
tress of  the  house ;  "  but  Dinah  is  an  excellent  cook,  and — 
and — O  cousin,  I  do  not  wish  to  do  it ;  I  can  not  bear  the 
mere  thought  of  it ;  but  oh  !  we  must,  we  must."  Tears 
stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  concluded. 

"  They  are  going  soon,"  suggested  Cousin  Copeland,  hesi- 
tatingly, biting  the  end  of  his  quill. 

"  That  is  the  very  reason.  They  are  going  soon,  and  we 
have  done  nothing  to  acknowledge  their  aid,  their  courtesy — 
we  Gardistons,  both  of  us.  They  have  saved  our  home,  per- 
haps our  lives ;  and  we — we  let  them  go  without  a  word  ! 
O  cousin,  it  must  not  be.  Something  we  must  do  ;  noblesse 


OLD  CARD  IS  TON. 


119 


oblige  /  I  have  thought  and  thought,  and  really  there  is  no- 
thing but  this :  we  must  invite  them  to  dinner,"  said  Miss 
Duke,  tragically. 

"  I — I  always  liked  little  dinners,"  said  Cousin  Copeland, 
in  a  gentle,  assenting  murmur. 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  officers  received  two  formal 
little  notes  with  the  compliments  of  Miss  Gardiston  Duke  in- 
closed, and  an  invitation  to  dinner.  "  Hurrah  ! "  cried  Saxton. 
"  At  last !  " 

The  day  appointed  was  at  the  end  of  the  next  week ; 
Gardis  had  decided  that  that  would  be  more  ceremonious. 
"  And  they  are  to  understand,"  she  said  proudly,  "  that  it  is 
a  mere  dinner  of  ceremony,  and  not  of  friendship." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Cousin  Copeland. 

Old  Dinah  was  delighted.  Gardis  brought  out  some  of 
the  half-year  rent  money,  and  a  dinner  was  planned,  of  few 
dishes  truly,  but  each  would  be  a  marvel  of  good  cooking, 
as  the  old  family  servants  of  the  South  used  to  cook  when 
time  was  nothing  to  them.  It  is  not  much  to  them  now ;  but 
they  have  heard  that  it  ought  to  be,  and  that  troubles  the  per- 
fection of  their  pie-crust.  There  was  a  little  wine  left  in  the 
wine-room — a  queer  little  recess  like  a  secret  chamber ;  and 
there  was  always  the  crocodile  china  and  the  few  pieces  of 
cut  glass.  The  four  forks  wrould  be  enough,  and  Gardis 
would  take  no  jelly,  so  that  the  spoons  would  serve  also ;  in 
fact,  the  dinner  was  planned  to  accommodate  the  silver.  So 
far,  so  good.  But  now  as  to  dress ;  here  the  poor  little  mis- 
tress was  sadly  pinched.  She  knew  this ;  but  she  hoped  to 
make  use  of  a  certain  well-worn  changeable  silk  that  had  be- 
longed to  Miss  Margaretta,  in  hue  a  dull  green  and  purple. 
But,  alas!  upon  inspection  she  discovered  that  the  faithful 
garment  had  given  way  at  last,  after  years  of  patient  service, 
and  now  there  was  nothing  left  but  mildew  and  shreds.  The 
invitation  had  been  formally  accepted ;  the  dinner  was  in  course 
of  preparation :  what  should  she  do  ?  She  had  absolutely  no- 
thing, poor  child,  save  the  two  faded  old  lawns  which  she 


120  OLD   GARDISTON. 

wore  ordinarily,  and  the  one  shabby  woolen  dress  for  cooler 
weather.  "  If  they  were  anything  but  what  they  are,"  she 
said  to  herself,  after  she  had  again  and  again  turned  over  the 
contents  of  her  three  bureau  drawers,  "  I  would  wear  my 
every-day  dress  without  a  moment's  thought  or  trouble.  But 
I  will  not  allow  these  men,  belonging  to  the  despot  army  of 
the  North,  these  aliens  forced  upon  us  by  a  strong  hand  and 
a  hard  fate,  to  smile  at  the  shabby  attire  of  a  Southern  lady." 
She  crossed  the  hall  to  Miss  Margaretta's  closed  room : 
she  would  search  every  corner  ;  possibly  there  was  something 
she  did  not  at  the  moment  recall.  But,  alas  !  only  too  well 
did  she  know  the  contents  of  the  closet  and  the  chest  of  draw- 
ers, the  chest  of  drawers  and  the  closet ;  had  she  not  been 
familiar  with  every  fold  and  hue  from  her  earliest  childhood  ? 
Was  there  nothing  else  ?  There  was  the  cedar  chamber,  a 
little  cedar  cupboard  in  the  wall,  where  Miss  Margaretta  kept 
several  stately  old  satin  bonnets,  elaborate  structures  of  a  past 
age.  Mechanically  Gardis  mounted  the  steps,  and  opened 
the  little  door  half-way  up  the  wall.  The  bonnets  were  there, 
and  with  them  several  packages ;  these  she  took  down  and 
opened.  Among  various  useless  relics  of  finery  appeared,  at 
last,  one  whole  dress ;  narrow-skirted,  short,  with  a  scantily 
fashioned  waist,  it  was  still  a  complete  robe  of  its  kind,  in 
color  a  delicate  blue,  the  material  clinging  and  soft  like  Can- 
ton crape.  Folded  with  the  dress  were  blue  kid  slippers  and 
a  silk  belt  with  a  broad  buckle.  The  package  bore  a  label 
with  this  inscription,  "  The  gown  within  belonged  to  my 
respected  mother,  Pamela  Gardiston,"  in  the  handwriting  of 
Miss  Margaretta ;  and  Gardis  remembered  that  she  had  seen 
the  blue  skirt  once,  long  ago,  in  her  childhood.  But  Miss 
Margaretta  allowed  no  prying,  and  her  niece  had  been  trained 
to  ask  permission  always  before  entering  her  apartment,  and 
to  refrain  from  touching  anything,  unless  asked  to  do  so  while 
there.  Now  the  poverty-stricken  little  hostess  carried  the 
relics  carefully  across  to  her  own  room,  and,  locking  the  door, 
attired  herself,  and  anxiously  surveyed  the  effect.  The  old- 


OLD  GARDISTON.  121 

fashioned  gown  left  her  shoulders  and  arms  bare,  the  broad 
belt  could'  not  lengthen  the  short  waist,  and  the  skirt  hardly 
covered  her  ankles.  "  I  can  wear  my  old  muslin  cape,  but 
my  arms  will  have  to  show,  and  my  feet  too,"  she  thought, 
with  nervous  distress.  The  creased  blue  kid  slippers  were 
full  of  little  holes  and  somewhat  mildewed,  but  the  girl 
mended  them  bravely ;  she  said  to  herself  that  she  need  only 
walk  down  to  the  dining-room  and  back ;  and,  besides,  the 
rooms  would  not  be  brightly  lighted.  If  she  had  had  any- 
thing to  work  with,  even  so  much  as  one  yard  of  material,  she 
would  have  made  over  the  old  gown  ;  but  she  had  absolutely 
nothing,  and  so  she  determined  to  overcome  her  necessities 
by  sheer  force  of  will. 

"  How  do  I  look,  cousin  ?  "  she  said,  appearing  at  the 
study-door  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fatal  day.  See  spoke  ner- 
vously, and  yet  proudly,  as  though  defying  criticism.  But 
Cousin  Copeland  had  no  thought  of  criticism. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  with  pleased  surprise,  "  you  look 
charming.  I  am  very  glad  you  have  a  new  gown,  dear,  very 
glad." 

"  Men  are  all  alike,"  thought  Gardis  exultingly.  "  The 
others  will  think  it  is  new  also." 

Cousin  Copeland  possessed  but  one  suit  of  clothes ;  con- 
sequently he  had  not  been  able  to  honor  the  occasion  by  a 
change  of  costume  ;  but  he  wore  a  ruffled  shirt  and  a  flower 
in  his  buttonhole,  and  his  countenance  was  sedately  illumined 
by  the  thought  of  the  festal  board  below.  He  was  not  at 
work,  but  merely  dabbling  a  little  on  the  outer  edges — mak- 
ing flourishes  at  the  ends  of  the  chapters,  numbering  pages, 
and  so  forth.  Gardis  had  gone  to  the  drawing-room ;  she 
longed  to  see  herself  from  head  to  foot,  but,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  glasses  in  two  old  pier-tables,  there  was  no  large 
mirror  save  the  gauze-veiled  one  in  the  drawing-room. 
Should  she  do  it  ?  Eve  listened  to  the  tempter,  and  fell. 
Likewise  Gardis.  A  scissors,  a  chair,  a  snip,  and  lo  !  it  was 
done.  There  she  was,  a  little  figure  in  a  quaint  blue  gown, 
6 


122  OLD  GARDISTON. 

the  thick  muslin  cape  hiding  the  neck,  but  the  dimpled  arms 
bare  almost  to  the  shoulder,  since  the  sleeve  was  but  a  narrow 
puff  ;  the  brown  hair  of  this  little  image  was  braided  around 
the  head  like  a  coronet ;  the  wistful  face  was  colorless  and 
sad ;  in  truth,  there  seemed  to  be  tears  in  the  brown  eyes. 
"  I  will  not  cry,"  said  Gardis,  jumping  down  from  her  chair, 
"  but  I  do  look  odd ;  there  is  no  doubt  of  that."  Then  she 
remembered  that  she  should  not  have  jumped,  on  account  of 
the  slippers,  and  looked  anxiously  down  ;  but  the  kid  still 
held  its  place  over  the  little  feet,  and,  going  to  the  piano,  the 
young  mistress  of  the  manor  began  playing  a  gay  little  love- 
song,  as  if  to  defy  her  own  sadness.  Before  it  was  finished, 
old  Pompey,  his  every-day  attire  made  majestic  by  a  large, 
stiffly  starched  collar,  announced  the  guests,  and  the  solem- 
nities began. 

Everything  moved  smoothly,  however.  Cousin  Copeland's 
conversation  was  in  its  most  flowing  vein,  the  simple  little 
dinner  was  well  cooked  and  served,  Pompey  was  statuesque, 
and  the  two  guests  agreeable.  They  remained  at  the  table 
some  time,  according  to  the  old  Gardiston  custom,  and  then, 
the  ends  of  wax-candles  having  been  lighted  in  the  drawing- 
room,  coffee  was  served  there  in  the  crocodile  cups,  and  Miss 
Duke  sang  one  or  two  songs.  Soon  after  the  officers  took 
leave.  Captain  Newell  bowed  as  he  said  farewell,  but  Roger 
Saxton,  younger  and  more  impulsive,  extended  his  hand. 
Miss  Duke  made  a  stately  courtesy,  with  downcast  eyes,  as 
though  she  had  not  observed  it ;  but  by  her  heightened  color 
the  elder  guest  suspected  the  truth,  and  smiled  inwardly  at 
the  proud  little  reservation.  "  The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his 
own,"  he  said  to  himself. 

The  dreaded  dinner  was  over,  and  the  girl  had  judged 
correctly :  the  two  visitors  had  no  suspicion  of  the  antiquity 
of  the  blue  gown. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  sweet  little  picture,  from  the 
pink  rose  in  the  hair  down  to  the  blue  slipper  !  "  said  Saxton 
enthusiastically. 


OLD  GARDISTON.  123 

"  She  looked  well,"  replied  Newell ;  "  but  as  for  cordiality — " 

"  I'll  win  that  yet.  I  like  her  all  the  better  for  her  little 
ways,"  said  the  lieutenant.  "  I  suppose  it  is  only  natural  that 
Southern  girls  should  cherish  bitterness  against  us ;  although, 
of  course,  she  is  far  too  young  to  have  lost  a  lover  in  the  war 
— far  too  young." 

"  Which  is  a  comfort,"  said  Newell  dryly. 

"  A  great  comfort,  old  man.  Don't  he  bearish,  now,  but 
just  wait  a  while  and  see." 

"  Precisely  what  I  intend  to  do,"  said  Newell. 

In  the  mean  time  Gardis,  in  the  privacy  of  her  own  room, 
was  making  a  solemn  funeral  pyre  on  the  hearth,  composed 
of  the  blue  gown,  the  slippers,  and  the  pink  rose,  and  watch- 
ing the  flame  as  it  did  its  work.  "  So  perish  also  the  enemies 
of  my  country  !  "  she  said  to  herself.  (She  did  not  mean  ex- 
actly that  they  should  be  burned  on  funeral  pyres,  but  merely 
consigned  them  on  this,  as  on  all  occasions,  to  a  general  per- 
dition.) The  old  dress  was  but  a  rag,  and  the  slippers  were 
worthless ;  but,  had  they  been  new  and  costly,  she  would  have 
done  the  same.  Had  they  not  been  desecrated  ?  Let  them 
die! 

It  was,  of  course,  proper  that  the  guests  should  call  at 
Gardiston  House  within  a  day  or  two  ;  and  Roger  Saxton,  ig- 
noring the  coldness  of  his  reception,  came  again  and  again. 
He  even  sought  out  Cousin  Copeland  in  his  study,  and  won 
the  heart  of  the  old  bachelor  by  listening  a  whole  morning  to 
extracts  from  the  documents.  Gardis  found  that  her  reserve 
was  of  no  avail  against  this  bold  young  soldier,  who  followed 
her  into  all  her  little  retreats,  and  paid  no  attention  to  her 
stinging  little  speeches.  Emboldened  and  also  angered  by 
what  she  deemed  his  callousness,  she  every  day  grew  more 
and  more  open  in  her  tone,  until  you  might  have  said  that 
she,  as  a  unit,  poured  out  upon  his  head  the  whole  bitterness 
of  the  South.  Saxton  made  no  answer  until  the  time  came 
for  the  camp  to  break  up,  the  soldiers  being  ordered  back  to 
the  city.  Then  he  came  to  see  her  one  afternoon,  and  sat  for 


124 


OLD  GARDISTON. 


some  time  in  silence ;  the  conversation  of  the  little  mistress 
was  the  same  as  usual. 

"  I  forgive  this,  and  all  the  bitter  things  you  have  said  to 
me,  Gardis,"  he  remarked  abruptly. 

"  Forgive  !     And  by  what  right,  sir— 

"  Only  this  :  I  love  you,  dear."  And  then  he  poured  out 
all  the  tide  of  his  young  ardor,  and  laid  his  heart  and  his 
life  at  her  feet. 

But  the  young  girl,  drawing  her  slight  figure  up  to  its  full 
height,  dismissed  him  with  haughty  composure.  She  no 
longer  spoke  angrily,  but  simply  said,  "  That  you,  a  Northern- 
er and  a  soldier,  should  presume  to  ask  for  the  hand  of  a 
Southern  lady,  shows,  sir,  that  you  have  not  the  least  com- 
prehension of  us  or  of  our  country."  Then  she  made  him  a 
courtesy  and  left  the  room.  The  transformation  was  com- 
plete ;  it  was  no  longer  the  hot-tempered  girl  flashing  out  in 
biting  little  speeches,  but  the  woman  uttering  the  belief  of 
her  life.  Saxton  rode  off  into  town  that  same  night,  dejected 
and  forlorn. 

Captain  Newell  took  his  leave  a  day  later  in  a  different 
fashion  ;  he  told  Miss  Duke  that  he  would  leave  a  guard  on 
the  premises  if  she  wi$hed  it. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  necessary,"  answered  the  lady. 

"  Nor  do  I ;  indeed,  I  feel  sure  that  there  will  be  no  fur- 
ther trouble,  for  we  have  placed  the  whole  district  under  mili- 
tary rule  since  the  last  disturbance.  But  I  thought  possibly 
you  might  feel  timid." 

"  I  am  not  timid,  Captain  Newell." 

The  grave  captain  stroked  his  mustache  to  conceal  a 
smile,  and  then,  as  he  rose  to  go,  he  said :  "  Miss  Duke,  I 
wish  to  say  to  you  one  thing.  You  know  nothing  of  us,  of 
course,  but  I  trust  you  will  accept  my  word  when  I  say 
that  Mr.  Saxton  is  of  good  family,  that  he  is  well  educated, 
and  that  he  is  heir  to  a  fair  fortune.  What  he  is  personally 
you  have  seen  for  yourself — a  frank,  kind-hearted,  manly 
young  fellow." 


OLD  GARDISTON.  125 

"  Did  you  come  here  to  plead  his  cause  ?  "  said  the  girl 
scornfully. 

"  No ;  I  came  here  to  offer  you  a  guard,  Miss  Duke,  for 
the  protection  of  your  property.  But  at  the  same  time  I 
thought  it  only  my  duty  to  make  you  aware  of  the  real  value 
of  the  gift  laid  at  your  feet." 

"  How  did  you  know — "  began  Gardis. 

"  Roger  tells  me  everything,"  replied  the  officer.  "  If  it 
were  not  so,  I — "  Here  he  paused ;  and  then,  as  though  he 
had  concluded  to  say  no  more,  he  bowed  and  took  leave. 

That  night  Gardiston  House  was  left  to  itself  in  the  forest 
stillness.  "  I  am  glad  that  bugle  is  silenced  for  ever,"  said 
Gardis. 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  silvern  sound,"  said  Cousin  Copeland. 

The  rains  began,  and  there  was  no  more  walking  abroad  ; 
the  excitement  of  the  summer  and  the  camp  gone,  in  its  place 
came  the  old  cares  which  had  been  half  forgotten.  (Care 
always  waits  for  a  cold  or  a  rainy  day.)  Could  the  little  house- 
hold manage  to  live — live  with  their  meager  comforts — until 
the  next  payment  of  rent  came  in  ?  That  was  the  question. 

Bitterly,  bitterly  poor  was  the  whole  Southern  country  in 
those  dreary  days  after  the  war.  The  second  year  was  worse 
than  the  first ;  for  the  hopes  that  had  buoyed  up  the  broken 
fortunes  soon  disappeared,  and  nothing  was  left.  There  was 
no  one  to  help  Gardis  Duke,  or  the  hundreds  of  other  women  in 
like  desolate  positions.  Some  of  the  furniture  and  ornaments 
of  the  old  house  might  have  been  sold,  could  they  have  been 
properly  brought  forward  in  New  York  City,  where  there  were 
people  with  purses  to  buy  such  things ;  but  in  the  South  no 
one  wanted  Chinese  images,  and  there  was  nothing  of  intrinsic 
value.  So  the  little  household  lived  along,  in  a  spare,  pinched 
way,  until,  suddenly,  final  disaster  overtook  them  :  the  tenant 
of  the  warehouse  gave  up  his  lease,  declaring  that  the  old 
building  was  too  ruinous  for  use ;  and,  as  no  one  succeeded 
him,  Gardiston  House  beheld  itself  face  to  face  with  starvation. 

"  If  we  wasn't  so  old,  Pomp  and  me,  Miss  Gardis,  we  could 


126  OLD  CARD  IS  TON. 

work  for  yer,"  said  Dinah,  with  great  tears  rolling  down  her 
wrinkled  cheeks ;  "  but  we's  just  good  for  not 'ing  now." 

Cousin  Copeland  left  his  manuscripts  and  wandered  aim- 
lessly around  the  garden  for  a  day  or  two ;  then  the  little  man 
rose  early  one  morning  and  walked  into  the  city,  with  the 
hopeful  idea  of  obtaining  employment  as  a  clerk.  "  My  hand- 
writing is  more  than  ordinarily  ornate,  I  think,"  he  said  to 
himself,  with  proud  confidence. 

Reaching  the  town  at  last,  he  walked  past  the  stores  sev- 
eral times  and  looked  timidly  within  ;  he  thought  perhaps 
some  one  would  see  him,  and  come  out.  But  no  one  came ; 
and  at  last  he  ventured  into  a  clothing-store,  through  a  grove 
of  ticketed  coats  and  suspended  trousers.  The  proprietor  of 
the  establishment,  a  Northern  Hebrew  whose  venture  had  not 
paid  very  well,  heard  his  modest  request,  and  asked  what  he 
could  do. 

"  I  can  write,"  said  Cousin  Copeland,  with  quiet  pride ; 
and  in  answer  to  a  sign  he  climbed  up  on  a  tall  stool  and  pro- 
ceeded to  cover  half  a  sheet  of  paper  in  his  best  style.  As  he 
could  not  for  the  moment  think  of  anything  else,  he  wrote 
out  several  paragraphs  from  the  last  family  document. 

"  Richard,  the  fourth  of  the  name,  a  descendant  on  the 
maternal  side  from  the  most  respected  and  valorous  family — " 

"  Oh,  we  don't  care  for  that  kind  of  writing ;  it's  old-fash- 
ioned," said  Mr.  Ottenheimer,  throwing  down  the  paper,  and 
waving  the  applicant  toward  the  door  with  his  fat  hand.  "  I 
don't  want  my  books  frescoed." 

Cousin  Copeland  retired  to  the  streets  again  with  a  new 
sensation  in  his  heart.  Old-fashioned  ?  Was  it  old-fash- 
ioned ?  And  even  if  so,  was  it  any  the  less  a  rarely  attained 
and  delicately  ornate  style  of  writing  ?  He  could  not  under- 
stand it.  Weary  with  the  unaccustomed  exercise,  he  sat 
down  at  last  on  the  steps  of  a  church — an  old  structure  whose 
spire  bore  the  marks  of  bomb-shells  sent  in  from  the  block- 
ading fleet  outside  the  bar  during  those  months  of  dreary 
siege — and  thought  he  would  refresh  himself  with  some  fur- 


OLD  GARDISTON.  127 

,tive  mouthfuls  of  the  corn-bread  hidden  in  his  pocket  for 
lunch. 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  a  voice,  just  as  he  had  drawn 
forth  his  little  parcel  and  was  opening  it  behind  the  skirt  of 
his  coat.  "  When  did  you  come  in  from  Gardiston  ?  " 

It  was  Captain  Newell.  With  the  rare  courtesy  which 
comes  from  a  kind  heart,  he  asked  no  questions  regarding  the 
fatigue  and  the  dust-powdered  clothes  of  the  little  bachelor, 
and  took  a  seat  beside  him  as  though  a  church-step  on  a  city 
street  was  a  customary  place  of  meeting. 

"  I  was  about  to — to  eat  a  portion  of  this  corn-bread," 
said  Cousin  Copeland,  hesitatingly;  "  will  you  taste  it  also  ?  " 

The  young  officer  accepted  a  share  of  the  repast  gravely, 
and  then  Cousin  Copeland  told  his  story.  He  was  a  simple 
soul.  Miss  Margaretta  would  have  made  the  soldier  believe 
she  had  come  to  town  merely  for  her  own  lofty  amusement  or 
to  buy  jewels.  It  ended,  however,  in  the  comfortable  eating 
of  a  good  dinner  at  the  hotel,  and  a  cigar  in  Captain  Newell's 
own  room,  which  was  adorned  with  various  personal  appli- 
ances for  comfort  that  astonished  the  eyes  of  the  careful  little 
bachelor,  and  left  him  in  a  maze  of  vague  wonderings.  Young 
men  lived  in  that  way,  then,  nowadays  ?  They  could  do  so, 
and  yet  not  be  persons  of — of  irregular  habits  ? 

David  Newell  persuaded  his  guest  to  abandon,  for  the 
present,  all  idea  of  obtaining  employment  in  the  city.  "  These 
shopkeepers  are  not  capable  of  appreciating  qualifications 
such  as  yours,  sir,"  he  said.  "Would  it  not  be  better  to  set 
about  obtaining  a  new  tenant  for  the  warehouse  ?  " 

Cousin  Copeland  thought  it  would ;  but  repairs  were 
needed,  and — 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  charge  of  it  ?  I  am  in  the  city  all 
the  time,  and  I  have  acquaintances  among  the  Northerners 
who  are  beginning  to  come  down  here  with  a  view  of  engag- 
ing in  business." 

Cousin  Copeland  gladly  relinquished  the  warehouse,  and 
then,  after  an  hour's  rest,  he  rode  gallantly  back  to  Gardiston 


128  OLD  GARDISTON. 

House  on  one  of  the  captain's  horses ;  he  explained  at  some 
length  that  he  had  been  quite  a  man  of  mettle  in  his  youth  as 
regards  horse-flesh — "  often  riding,  sir,  ten  and  fifteen  miles  a 
day." 

"  I  will  go  in  for  a  moment,  I  think,"  said  the  young  offi- 
cer, as  they  arrived  at  the  old  gate. 

"  Most  certainly,"  said  Cousin  Copeland  cordially ;  "  Gar- 
dis  will  be  delighted  to  see  you." 

"  Will  she  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

Clouds  had  gathered,  a  raw  wind  from  the  ocean  swept 
over  the  land,  and  fine  rain  was  beginning  to  fall.  The  house 
seemed  dark  and  damp  as  the  two  entered  it.  Gardis  listened 
to  Cousin  Copeland 's  detailed  little  narrative  in  silence,  and 
made  no  comments  while  he  was  present ;  but  when  he  left 
the  room  for  a  moment  she  said  abruptly : 

"  Sir,  you  will  make  no  repairs,  and  you  will  take  no  steps 
toward  procuring  a  tenant  for  our  property  in  the  city.  I  wUl 
not  allow  it." 

"  And  why  may  I  not  do  it  as  well  as  any  other  person  ?  " 
said  Captain  Newell. 

"You  are  not ' any  other  person,'  and  you  know  it,"  said 
Gardis,  with  flushed  cheeks.  "  I  do  not  choose  to  receive  a 
favor  from  your  hands." 

"  It  is  a  mere  business  transaction,  Miss  Duke." 

"  It  is  not.  You  know  you  intend  to  make  the  repairs 
yourself,"  cried  the  girl  passionately. 

"  And  if  I  do  so  intend  ?  It  will  only  be  advancing  the 
money,  and  you  can  pay  me  interest  if  you  like.  The  city 
will  certainly  regain  her  old  position  in  time ;  my  venture  is  a 
sure  one.  But  I  wish  to  assist  you,  Miss  Duke ;  I  do  not 
deny  it." 

"  And  I — will  not  allow  it !  " 

"  What  will  you  do,  then  ?  " 

"  God  knows,"  said  Gardis.  "  But  I  would  rather  starve 
than  accept  assistance  from  you."  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears 
as  she  spoke,  but  she  held  her  head  proudly  erect. 


OLD  GARDISTON. 


129 


"  And  from  Saxton  ?  He  has  gone  North,  but  he  would 
be  so  proud  to  help  you." 

"  From  him  least  of  all."        • 

"  Because  of  his  love  for  you  ?  " 

Gardis  was  silent. 

"Miss  Duke,  let  me  ask  you  one  question.  If  you  had 
loved  Roger  Saxton,  would  you  have  married  him  ?  " 

"  Never ! " 

"  You  would  have  sacrificed  your  whole  life,  then,  for  the 
sake  of — " 

"  My  country,  sir." 

"  We  have  a  common  country,  Gardis,"  answered  the  young 
man  gravely.  Then,  as  he  rose,  "  Child,"  he  said,  "  I  shall 
not  relinquish  the  charge  of  your  property,  given  into  my 
hands  by  Mr.  Copeland  Gardiston,  and,  for  your  own  sake,  I 
beg  you  to  be  more  patient,  more  gentle,  as  becomes  a  wo- 
man. A  few  weeks  will  no  doubt  see  you  released  from  even 
your  slight  obligation  to  me :  you  will  have  but  a  short  time 
to  wait." 

Poor  Gardis  !  Her  proud  scorn  went  for  nothing,  then  ? 
She  was  overridden  as  though  she  had  been  a  child,  and  even 
rebuked  for  want  of  gentleness.  The  drawing-room  was 
cheerless  and  damp  in  the  rainy  twilight;  the  girl  wore  a 
faded  lawn  dress,  and  her  cheeks  were  pale ;  the  old  house 
was  chilly  through  and  through,  and  even  the  soldier,  strong 
as  he  was,  felt  himself  shivering.  At  this  instant  enter  Cousin 
Copeland.  "  Of  course  you  will  spend  the  night  here,"  he 
said  heartily.  "  It  is  raining,  and  I  must  insist  upon  your 
staying  over  until  to-morrow — must  really  insist." 

Gardis  looked  up  quickly ;  her  dismayed  face  said  plainly, 
"  Oh  no,  no."  Thereupon  the  young  officer  immediately  ac- 
cepted Cousin  Copeland's  invitation,  and  took  his  seat  again 
with  quiet  deliberation.  Gardis  sank  down  upon  .the  sofa. 
"  Very  well,"  she  thought  desperately,  "  this  time  it  is  hope- 
less. Nothing  can  be  done." 

And  hopeless  it  was.     Pompey  brought  in  a  candle,  and 


130  OLD  GARDISTON. 

placed  it  upon  the  table,  where  its  dim  light  made  the  large 
apartment  more  dismal  than  before ;  the  rain  poured  down 
outside,  and  the  rising  wind  rattled  the  loose  shutters.  Din- 
ner was  announced — one  small  fish,  potatoes,  and  corn-bread. 
Pale  Gardis  sat  like  a  statue  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and 
made  no  effort  to  entertain  the  guest ;  but  Cousin  Copeland 
threw  himself  bravely  into  the  breach,  and,  by  way  of  diver- 
sion, related  the  whole  story  of  the  unchronicled  "  wife  of  one 
of  our  grandfather's  second  cousins,"  who  had  turned  out  to 
be  a  most  remarkable  personage  of  Welsh  descent,  her  golden 
harp  having  once  stood  in  the  very  room  in  which  they  were 
now  seated. 

"  Do  you  not  think,  my  child,  that  a — a  little  fire  in  your 
aunt  Margaretta's  boudoir  would — would  be  conducive  to  our 
comfort?"  suggested  the  little  bachelor,  as  they  rose  from 
the  table. 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Gardis. 

So  the  three  repaired  thither,  and  when  the  old  red  cur- 
tains were  drawn,  and  the  fire  lighted,  the  little  room  had  at 
least  a  semblance  of  comfort,  whatever  may  have  been  in  the 
hearts  of  its  occupants.  Gardis  embroidered,  Cousin  Cope- 
land  chatted  on  in  a  steady  little  stream,  and  the  guest  lis- 
tened. "  I  will  step  up  stairs  to  my  study,  and  bring  down 
that  file  of  documents,"  said  the  bachelor,  rising.  He  was 
gone,  and  left  only  silence  behind  him.  Gardis  did  not  raise 
her  head,  but  went  steadily  on  with  the  embroidered  robe  of 
the  Queen  of  Sheba. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  began  David  Newell,  breaking  the  long 
pause  at  last,  "  how  comfortable  you  would  be,  Miss  Duke,  as 
the  wife  of  Roger  Saxton.  He  would  take  you  North,  away 
from  this  old  house,  and  he  would  be  so  proud  and  so  fond 
of  you." 
.  No  answer. 

"  The  place  could  be  put  in  order  if  you  did  not  care  to 
sell  it,  and  your  cousin  Copeland  could  live  on  here  as  usual ; 
indeed,  I  could  scarcely  imagine  him  in  any  other  home." 


OLD  GARDISTON. 


131 


"  Nor  myself." 

"  Oh  yes,  Miss  Duke ;  I  can  easily  imagine  you  in  New 
York,  Paris,  or  Vienna.  I  can  easily  imagine  you  at  the  opera, 
in  the  picture-galleries,  or  carrying  out  to  the  full  your  exqui- 
site taste  in  dress." 

Down  went  the  embroidery.  "Sir,  do  you  mean  to  insult 
me  ?  "  said  the  pale,  cotton-robed  little  hostess. 

"  By  no  means." 

"  Why  do  you  come  here  ?  Why  do  you  sneer  at  my  poor 
clothes?  Why — "  Her  voice  trembled,  and  she  stopped 
abruptly. 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  they  were  poor  or  old,  Miss  Duke. 
I  have  never  seen  a  more  exquisite  costume  than  yours  on  the 
evening  when  we  dined  here  by  invitation  ;  it  has  been  like  a 
picture  in  my  memory  ever  since." 

"An.  old  robe  that  belonged  to  my  grandmother,  and  I 
burned  it,  every  shred,  as  soon  as  you  had  gone,"  said  Gardis 
hotly. 

Far  from  being  impressed  as  she  had  intended  he  should 
be,  David  Newell  merely  bowed ;  the  girl  saw  that  he  set  the 
act  down  as  "  temper." 

"  I  suppose  your  Northern  ladies  never  do  such  things  ?  " 
she  said  bitterly. 

"  You  are  right ;  they  do  not,"  he  answered. 

"  Why  do  you  come  here  ?  "  pursued  Gardis.  "  Why  do 
you  speak  to  me  of  Mr.  Saxton  ?  Though  he  had  the  fortune 
of  a  prince,  he  is  nothing  to  me." 

"  Roger's  fortune  is  comfortable,  but  not  princely,  Miss 
Duke — by  no  means  princely.  We  are  not  princely  at  the 
North,"  added  Newell,  with  a  slight  smile,  "  and  neither  are 
we  'knightly.'  We  must,  I  fear,  yield  all  claim  to  those 
prized  words  of  yours." 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  have  used  the  words,"  said  Miss 
Duke,  with  lofty  indifference. 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  you  alone — you  personally — but  all 
Southern  women.  However,  to  return  to  our  subject : 


132  OLD  GARDISTON.' 

Saxton  loves  you,  and  has  gone  away  with  a  saddened 
heart." 

This  was  said  gravely.  "As  though,"  Miss  Duke  re- 
marked to  herself — "  really  as  though  a  heart  was  of  conse- 
quence ! " 

"  I  presume  he  will  soon  forget,"  she  said  carelessly,  as 
she  took  up  her  embroidery  again. 

"  Yes,  no  doubt,"  replied  Captain  Newell.  "  I  remember 
once  on  Staten  Island,  and  again  out  in  Mississippi,  when  he 
was  even  more —  Yes,  as  you  say,  he  will  soon  forget." 

"  Then  why  do  you  so  continually  speak  of  him  ?  "  said 
Miss  Duke  sharply.  Such  prompt  corroboration  was  not, 
after  all,  as  agreeable  as  it  should  have  been  to  a  well-regu- 
lated mind. 

"  I  speak  of  him,  Miss  Duke,  because  I  wish  to  know 
whether  it  is  only  your  Southern  girlish  pride  that  speaks,  or 
whether  you  really,  as  would  be  most  natural,  love  him  as  he 
loves  you ;  for,  in  the  latter  case,  you  would  be  able,  I  think, 
to  fix  and  retain  his  somewhat  fickle  fancy.  He  is  a  fine 
fellow,  and,  as  I  said  before,  it  would  be  but  natural,  Miss 
Duke,  that  you  should  love  him." 

"  I  do  not  love  him,"  said  Gardis,  quickly  and  angrily,  put- 
ting in  her  stitches  all  wrong.  Who  was  this  person,  daring 
to  assume  what  would  or  would  not  be  natural  for  her  to  do  ? 

"  Very  well ;  I  believe  ;you.  And  now  that  I  know  the 
truth,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  come  here :  you  have  asked  me 
several  times.  I  too  love  you,  Miss  Duke." 

Gardis  had  risen.     "  You  ?  "  she  said — "  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I ;  I  too." 

He  was  standing  also,  and  they  gazed  at  each  other  a 
moment  in  silence. 

"  I  will  never  marry  you,"  said  the  girl  at  last — "  never  ! 
never  !  You  do  not,  can  not,  understand  the  hearts  of  South- 
ern women,  sir." 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  to  marry  me,  Miss  Duke,"  said  the 
young  soldier  composedly ;  "  and  the  hearts  of  Southern  wo- 


OLD  GARDISTON.  133 

men  are  much  like  those  of  other  women,  I  presume."  Then, 
as  the  girl  opened  the  door  to  escape,  "  You  may  go  away 
if  you  like,  Gardis,"  he  said,  "  but  I  shall  love  you  all  the 
same,  dear." 

She  disappeared,  and  in  a  few  moments  Cousin  Copeland 
reentered,  with  apologies  for  his  lengthened  absence.  "  I 
found  several  other  documents  I  thought  you  might  like  to 
see,"  he  said  eagerly.  "  They  will  occupy  the  remainder  of 
our  evening  delightfully." 

They  did.  But  Gardis  did  not  return ;  neither  did  she  ap- 
pear at  the  breakfast-table  the  next  morning.  Captain  Newell 
rode  back  to  the  city  without  seeing  her. 

Not  long  afterward  Cousin  Copeland  received  a  formal 
letter  from  a  city  lawyer.  The  warehouse  had  found  a  tenant, 
and  he,  the  lawyer,  acting  for  the  agent,  Captain  Newell,  had 
the  honor  to  inclose  the  first  installment  of  rent-money,  and 
remained  an  obedient  servant,  and  so  forth.  Cousin  Cope- 
land  was  exultant.  Gardis  said  to  herself,  "He  is  taking 
advantage  of  our  poverty,"  and,  going  to  her  room,  she  sat 
down  to  plan  some  way  of  release.  "  I  might  be  a  governess," 
she  thought.  But  no  one  at  the  South  wanted  a  governess 
now,  and  how  could  she  go  North  ?  She  was  not  aware  how 
old-fashioned  were  her  little  accomplishments — her  music,  her 
embroidery,  her  ideas  of  literature,  her  prim  drawings,  and 
even  her  deportment.  No  one  made  courtesies  at  the  North 
any  more,  save  perhaps  in  the  Lancers.  As  to  chemistry, 
trigonometry,  physiology,  and  geology,  the  ordinary  studies 
of  a  Northern  girl,  she  knew  hardly  more  than  their  names. 
"  We  might  sell  the  place,"  she  thought  at  last,  "and  go  away 
somewhere  and  live  in  the  woods." 

This,  indeed,  seemed  the  only  way  open  to  her.  The 
house  was  an  actual  fact ;  it  was  there ;  it  was  also  her  own. 
A  few  days  later  an  advertisement  appeared  in  the  city  news- 
paper :  "  For  sale,  the  residence  known  as  Gardiston  House, 
situated  six  miles  from  the  city,  on  Green  River.  Apply  by 
letter,  or  on  the  premises,  to  Miss  Gardiston  Duke."  Three 


134  OLD  GARDISTON. 

days  passed,  and  no  one  came.  The  fourth  day  an  applicant 
appeared,  and  was  ushered  into  the  dining-room.  He  sent 
up  no  name ;  but  Miss  Duke  descended  hopefully  to  confer 
with  him,  and  found — Captain  Newell. 

"  You  ! "  she  said,  paling  and  flushing.  Her  voice  fal- 
tered ;  she  was  sorely  disappointed. 

"  It  will  always  be  myself,  Gardis,"  said  the  young  man 
gravely.  "  So  you  wish  to  sell  the  old  house  ?  I  should  not 
have  supposed  it." 

"  I  wish  to  sell  it  in  order  to  be  freed  from  obligations 
forced  upon  us,  sir." 

"  Very  well.     But  if  /  buy  it,  then  what  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  buy  it,  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  will  not 
sell  it  to  you.  You  do  not  wish  the  place ;  you  would  only 
buy  it  to  assist  us." 

"  Thai  is  true." 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said,  I  believe,"  said 
Miss  Duke,  rising. 

"  Is  there  nothing  more,  Gardis  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Captain  Newell." 

And  then,  without  another  word,  the  soldier  bowed,  and 
rode  back  to  town. 

The  dreary  little  advertisement  remained  in  a  corner  of 
the  newspaper  a  month  longer,  but  no  purchaser  appeared. 
The  winter  was  rainy,  with  raw  east  winds  from  the  ocean, 
and  the  old  house  leaked  in  many  places.  If  they  had  lived 
in  one  or  two  of  the  smaller  rooms,  which  were  in  better  con- 
dition and  warmer  than  the  large  apartments,  they  might  have 
escaped ;  but  no  habit  was  changed,  and  three  times  a  day 
the  table  was  spread  in  the  damp  dining-room,  where  the 
atmosphere  was  like  that  of  a  tomb,  and  where  no  fire  was 
ever  made.  The  long  evenings  were  spent  in  the  somber 
drawing-room  by  the  light  of  the  one  candle,  and  the  rain 
beat  against  the  old  shutters  so  loudly  that  Cousin  Copeland 
was  obliged  to  elevate  his  gentle  little  voice  as  he  read  aloud 
to  his  silent  companion.  But  one  evening  he  found  himself 


OLD  GARDISTON.  135 

forced  to  pause ;  his  voice  had  failed.  Four  days  afterward 
he  died,  gentle  and  placid  to  the  last.  He  was  an  old  man, 
although  no  one  had  ever  thought  so. 

The  funeral  notice  appeared  in  the  city  paper,  and  a  few 
old  family  friends  came  out  to  Gardiston  House  to  follow  the 
last  Gardiston  to  his  resting-place  in  St.  Mark's  forest  church- 
yard. They  were  all  sad-faced  people,  clad  in  mourning 
much  the  worse  for  wear.  Accustomed  to  sorrow,  they  fol- 
lowed to  the  grave  quietly,  not  a  heart  there  that  had  not  its 
own  dead.  They  all  returned  to  Gardiston  House,  sat  a 
while  in  the  drawing-room,  spoke  a  few  words  each  in  turn 
to  the  desolate  little  mistress,  and  then  took  leave.  Gardis 
was  left  alone. 

Captain  Newell  did  not  come  to  the  funeral;  he  could 
not  come  into  such  a  company  in  his  uniform,  and  he  would 
not  come  without  it.  He  had  his  own  ideas  of  duty,  and  his 
own  pride.  But  he  sent  a  wreath  of  beautiful  flowers,  which 
must  have  come  from  some  city  where  there  was  a  hot-house. 
Miss  Duke  would  not  place  the  wreath  upon  the  coffin,  neither 
would  she  leave  it  in  the  drawing-room  ;  she  stood  a  while 
with  it  in  her  hand,  and  then  she  stole  up  stairs  and  laid  it  on 
Cousin  Copeland's  open  desk,  where  daily  he  had  worked  so 
patiently  and  steadily  through  so  many  long  years.  Useless- 
ly ?  Who  among  us  shall  dare  to  say  that  ? 

A  week  later,  at  twilight,  old  Dinah  brought  up  the  young 
officer's  card. 

"  Say  that  I  see  no  one,"  replied  Miss  Duke. 

A  little  note  came  back,  written  on  a  slip  of  paper :  "  I 
beg  you  to  see  me,  if  only  for  a  moment ;  it  is  a  business  mat- 
ter that  has  brought  me  here  to-day."  And  certainly  it  was 
a  very  forlorn  day  for  a  pleasure  ride:  the  wind  howled 
through  the  trees,  and  the  roads  were  almost  impassable  with 
deep  mire.  Miss  Duke  went  down  to  the  dining-room.  She 
wore  no  mourning  garments;  she  had  none.  She  had  not 
worn  mourning  for  her  aunt,  and  for  the  same  reason.  Pale 
and  silent,  she  stood  before  the  young  officer  waiting  to  hear 


136  OLD  GARDISTON. 

his  errand.  It  was  this  :  some  one  wished  to  purchase  Gar- 
diston  House — a  real  purchaser  this  time,  a  stranger.  Cap- 
tain Newell  did  not  say  that  it  was  the  wife  of  an  army  con- 
tractor, a  Northern  woman,  who  had  taken  a  fancy  for  an  old 
family  residence,  and  intended  to  be  herself  an  old  family  in 
future ;  he  merely  stated  the  price  offered  for  the  house  and 
its  furniture,  and  in  a  few  words  placed  the  business  clearly 
before  the  listener. 

Her  face  lighted  with  pleasure. 

"  At  last !  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  at  last,  Miss  Duke."  There  was  a  shade  of  sad- 
ness in  his  tone,  but  he  spoke  no  word  of  entreaty.  "  You 
accept  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Gardis. 

"  I  must  ride  back  to  the  city,"  said  David  Newell,  taking 
up  his  cap,  "  before  it  is  entirely  dark,  for  the  roads  are  very 
heavy.  I  came  out  as  soon  as  I  heard  of  the  offer,  Miss 
Duke,  for  I  knew  you  would  be  glad,  very  glad." 

"  Yes,"  said  Gardis,  "  I  am  glad  ;  very  glad."  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  now,  and  she  smiled  as  she  returned  the  young 
officer's  bow.  "  Some  time,  Captain  Newell — some  time  I 
trust  I  shall  feel  like  thanking  you  for  what  was  undoubtedly 
intended,  on  your  part,  as  kindness,"  she  said. 

"  It  was  never  intended  for  kindness  at  all,"  said  Newell 
bluntly.  "  It  was  never  but  one  thing,  Gardis,  and  you  know 
it ;  and  that  one  thing  is,  and  always  will  be,  love.  Not '  al- 
ways will  be,'  though;  I  should  not  say  that.  A  man  can 
conquer  an  unworthy  love  if  he  chooses." 

"  Unworthy  ?  "  said  Gardis  involuntarily. 

"  Yes,  unworthy ;  like  this  of  mine  for  you.  A  woman 
should  be  gentle,  should  be  loving ;  a  woman  should  have  a 
womanly  nature.  But  you — you — you  do  not  seem  to  have 
anything  in  you  but  a  foolish  pride.  I  verily  believe,  Gardis 
Duke,  that,  if  you  loved  me  enough  to  die  for  me,  you  would 
still  let  me  go  out  of  that  door  without  a  word,  so  deep,  so 
deadly  is  that  pride  of  yours.  What  do  I  want  with  such  a 


OLD  GARDISTON.  137 

wife  ?  No.  My  wife  must  love  me — love  me  ardently,  as  I 
shall  love  her.  Farewell,  Miss  Duke;  I  shall  not  see  you 
again,  probably.  I  will  send  a  lawyer  out  to  complete  the 
sale." 

He  was  gone,  and  Gardis  stood  alone  in  the  darkening 
room.  Gardiston  House,  where  she  had  spent  her  life — Gar- 
diston  House,  full  of  the  memories  and  associations  of  two 
centuries — Gardiston  House,  the  living  reminder  and  the  con- 
stant support  of  that  family  pride  in  which  she  had  been  nur- 
tured, her  one  possession  in  the  land  which  she  had  so  loved, 
the  beautiful,  desolate  South — would  soon  be  hers  no  longer. 
She  began  to  sob,  and  then  when  the  sound  came  back  to 
her,  echoing  through  the  still  room,  she  stopped  suddenly,  as 
though  ashamed.  "  I  will  go  abroad,"  she  said ;  "  there  will 
be  a  great  deal  to  amuse  me  over  there."  But  the  comfort 
was  dreary ;  and,  as  if  she  must  do  something,  she  took  a 
candle,  and  slowly  visited  every  room  in  the  old  mansion, 
many  of  them  long  unused.  From  garret  to  cellar  she  went, 
touching  every  piece  of  the  antique  furniture,  folding  back 
the  old  curtains,  standing  by  the  dismantled  beds,  and  softly 
pausing  by  the  empty  chairs ;  she  was  saying  farewell.  On 
Cousin  Copeland's  desk  the  wreath  still  lay ;  in  that  room  she 
cried  from  sheer  desolation.  Then,  going  down  to  the  dining- 
room,  she  found  her  solitary  repast  awaiting  her,  and,  not  to 
distress  old  Dinah,  sat  down  in  her  accustomed  place.  Pres- 
ently she  perceived  smoke,  then  a  sound,  then  a  hiss  and  a 
roar.  She  flew  up  stairs ;  the  house  was  on  fire.  Somewhere 
her  candle  must  have  started  the  flame  ;  she  remembered  the 
loose  papers  in  Cousin  Copeland's  study,  and  the  wind  blow- 
ing through  the  broken  window-pane ;  it  was  there  that  she 
had  cried  so  bitterly,  forgetting  everything  save  her  own  lone- 
liness. 

Nothing  could  be  done ;  there  was  no  house  within  sev- 
eral miles — no  one  to  help.  The  old  servants  were  infirm, 
and  the  fire  had  obtained  strong  headway;  then  the  high 
wind  rushed  in,  and  sent  the  flames  up  through  the  roof  and 


138  OLD  GARDISTON. 

over  the  tops  of  the  trees.  When  the  whole  upper  story  was 
one  sheet  of  red  and  yellow,  some  one  rode  furiously  up  the 
road  and  into  the  garden,  where  Gardis  stood  alone,  her  little 
figure  illumined  by  the  glare ;  nearer  the  house  the  two  old 
servants  were  at  work,  trying  to  save  some  of  the  furniture 
from  the  lower  rooms. 

"  I  saw  the  light  and  hurried  back,  Miss  Duke,"  began 
Captain  Newell.  Then,  as  he  saw  the  wan  desolation  of  the 
girl's  face:  "  O  Gardis  !  why  will  you  resist  me  longer  ?  "  he 
cried  passionately.  "  You  shall  be  anything  you  like,  think 
anything  you  like — only  love  me,  dear,  as  I  love  you." 

And  Gardis  burst  into  tears.  "  I  can  not  help  it,"  she 
sobbed ;  "  everything  is  against  me.  The  very  house  is  burn- 
ing before  my  eyes.  O  David,  David  !  it  is  all  wrong ;  every- 
thing is  wrong.  But  what  can  I  do  when — when  you  hold 
me  so,  and  when —  Oh,  do  not  ask  me  any  more." 

"  But  I  shall,"  said  Newell,  his  face  flushing  with  deep 
happiness.  "  When  what,  dear  ?  " 

"When  I—" 

"  Love  me  ?  "  said  Newell.     He  would  have  it  spoken. 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Gardis,  hanging  her  head. 

"  And  I  have  adored  the  very  shoe-tie  of  my  proud  little 
love  ever  since  I  first  saw  her  sweet  face  at  the  drawing-room 
window,"  said  Newell,  holding  her  close  and  closer,  and  gaz- 
ing down  into  her  eyes  with  the  deep  gaze  of  the  quiet  heart 
that  loves  but  once. 

And  the  old  house  burned  on,  burned  as  though  it  knew  a 
contractor's  wife  was  waiting  for  it.  "  I  see  our  Gardis  is 
provided  for,"  said  the  old  house.  "  She  never  was  a  real 
Gardiston — only  a  Duke ;  so  it  is  just  as  well.  As  for  that 
contractor's  wife,  she  shall  have  nothing;  not  a  Chinese 
image,  not  a  spindle-legged  chair,  not'  one  crocodile  cup — no, 
not  even  one  stone  upon  another." 

It  kept  its  word  :  in  the  morning  there  was  nothing  left. 
Old  Gardiston  was  gone ! 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


The  trees  that  lean'd  in  their  love  unto  trees, 
That  lock'd  in  their  loves,  and  were  made  so  strong, 

Stronger  than  armies  ;  ay,  stronger  than  seas 
That  rush  from  their  caves  in  a  storm  of  song. 

The  cockatoo  swung  in  the  vines  below, 

And  muttering  hung  on  a  golden  thread, 
Or  moved  on  the  moss'd  bough  to  and  fro, 

In  plumes  of  gold  and  array'd  in  red. 

The  serpent  that  hung  from  the  sycamore  bough, 

And  sway'd  his  head  in  a  crescent  above, 
Had  folded  his  head  to  the  white  limb  now, 

And  fondled  it  close  like  a  great  black  love. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


ON  the  afternoon  of  the  23d  of  December,  the  thermome- 
ter marked  eighty-six  degrees  in  the  shade  on  the  outside 
wall  of  Mark  Deal's  house.  Mark  Deal's  brother,  lying  on 
the  white  sand,  his  head  within  the  line  of  shadow  cast  by  a 
live-oak,  but  all  the  remainder  of  his  body  full  in  the  hot  sun- 
shine, basked  liked  a  chameleon,  and  enjoyed  the  heat.  Mark 
Deal's  brother  spent  much  of  his  time  basking.  He  always 
took  the  live-oak  for  a  head-protector ;  but  gave  himself  vari- 
ety by  trying  new  radiations  around  the  tree,  his  crossed  legs 
and  feet  stretching  from  it  in  a  slightly  different  direction  each 
day,  as  the  spokes  of  a  wheel  radiate  from  the  hub.  The 
live-oak  was  a  symmetrical  old  tree,  standing  by  itself ;  hav- 
ing always  had  sufficient  space,  its  great  arms  were  straight, 
stretching  out  evenly  all  around,  densely  covered  with  the 
small,  dark,  leathery  leaves,  unnotched  and  uncut,  which  are 
as  unlike  the  Northern  oak-leaf  as  the  leaf  of  the  willow  is 


140 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


unlike  that  of  the  sycamore.  Behind  the  live-oak,  two  tall, 
ruined  chimneys  and  a  heap  of  white  stones  marked  where 
the  mansion-house  had  been.  The  old  tree  had  watched  its 
foundations  laid ;  had  shaded  its  blank,  white  front  and  little 
hanging  balcony  above ;  had  witnessed  its  destruction,  fifty 
years  before,  by  the  Indians ;  and  had  mounted  guard  over 
its  remains  ever  since,  alone  as  far  as  man  was  concerned, 
until  this  year,  when  a  tenant  had  arrived,  Mark  Deal,  and, 
somewhat  later,  Mark  Deal's  brother. 

The  ancient  tree  was  Spanish  to  the  core ;  it  would  have 
resented  the  sacrilege  to  the  tips  of  its  small  acorns,  if  the 
new-comer  had  laid  hands  upon  the  dignified  old  ruin  it 
guarded.  The  new-comer,  however,  entertained  no  such  in- 
tention ;  a  small  out-building,  roofless,  but  otherwise  in  good 
condition,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  circular  space,  attracted 
his  attention,  and  became  mentally  his  residence,  as  soon  as 
his  eyes  fell  upon  it,  he  meanwhile  standing  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  surveying  the  place  critically.  It  was  the  old 
Monteano  plantation,  and  he  had  taken  it  for  a  year. 

The  venerable  little  out-building  was  now  firmly  roofed 
with  new,  green  boards ;  its  square  windows,  destitute  of 
sash  or  glass,  possessed  new  wooden  shutters  hung  by  strips 
of  deer's  hide ;  new  steps  led  up  to  its  two  rooms,  elevated 
four  feet  above  the  ground.  But  for  a  door  it  had  only  a  red 
cotton  curtain,  now  drawn  forward  and  thrown  carelessly  over 
a  peg  on  the  outside  wall,  a  spot  of  vivid  color  on  its  white. 
Underneath  the  windows  hung  flimsy  strips  of  bark  covered 
with  brightly-hued  flowers. 

"  They  won't  live,"  said  Mark  Deal. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  put  in  fresh  ones  every  day  or  two,"  an- 
swered his  brother.  It  was  he  who  had  wanted  the  red 
curtain. 

As  he  basked,  motionless,  in  the  sunshine,  it  could  be 
noted  that  this  brother  was  a  slender  youth,  with  long,  pale- 
yellow  hair — hair  fine,  thin,  and  dry,  the  kind  that  crackles  if 
the  comb  is  passed  rapidly  through  it.  His  face  in  sleep  was 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


141 


pale  and  wizened,  with  deep  purple  shadows  under  the  closed 
eyes ;  his  long  hands  were  stretched  out  on  the  white,  hot 
sand  in  the  blaze  of  the  sunshine,  which,  however,  could  not 
alter  their  look  of  blue-white  cold.  The  sunken  chest  and 
blanched  temples  told  of  illness ;  but,  if  cure  were  possible,  it 
would  be  gained  from  this  soft,  balmy,  fragrant  air,  now 
soothing  his  sore  lungs.  He  slept  on  in  peace ;  and  an  old 
green  chameleon  came  down  from  the  tree,  climbed  up  on  the 
sleeve  of  his  brown  sack-coat,  occupied  himself  for  a  moment 
in  changing  his  own  miniature  hide  to  match  the  cloth,  swelled 
out  his  scarlet  throat,  caught  a  fly  or  two,  and  then,  pleasant- 
ly established,  went  to  sleep  also  in  company.  Butterflies,  in 
troops  of  twenty  or  thirty,  danced  in  the  golden  air ;  there 
was  no  sound.  Everything  was  hot  and  soft  and  brightly 
colored.  Winter  ?  Who  knew  of  winter  here  ?  Labor  ? 
What  was  labor  ?  This  was  the  land  and  the  sky  and  the 
air  of  never-ending  rest. 

Yet  one  man  was  working  there,  and  working  hard,  name- 
ly, Mark  Deal.  His  little  central  plaza,  embracing  perhaps 
an  acre,  was  surrounded  when  he  first  arrived  by  a  wall  of 
green,  twenty  feet  high.  The  sweet  orange-trees,  crape-myr- 
tles, oleanders,  guavas,  and  limes  planted  by  the  Spaniards 
had  been,  during  the  fifty  years,  conquered  and  partially  en- 
slaved by  a  wilder  growth — andromedas,  dahoons,  bayberries, 
and  the  old  field  loblollies,  the  whole  bound  together  by  the 
tangled  vines  of  the  jessamine  and  armed  smilax,  with  bear- 
grass  and  the  dwarf  palmetto  below.  Climbing  the  central 
live-oak,  Deal  had  found,  as  he  expected,  traces  of  the  six 
paths  which  had  once  led  from  this  little  plaza  to  the  various 
fields  and  the  sugar  plantation,  their  course  still  marked  by 
the  tops  of  the  bitter-sweet  orange-trees,  which  showed  them- 
selves glossily,  in  regular  lines,  amid  the  duller  foliage  around 
them.  He  took  their  bearings  and  cut  them  out  slowly,  one 
by  one.  Now  the  low-arched  aisles,  eighty  feet  in  length, 
were  clear,  with  the  thick  leaves  interlacing  overhead,  and 
the  daylight  shining  through  at  their  far  ends,  golden  against 


142 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


the  green.  Here,  where  the  north  path  terminated,  Deal  was 
now  working. 

He  was  a  man  slightly  below  middle  height,  broad-shoul- 
dered, and  muscular,  with  the  outlines  which  are  called  thick- 
set. He  appeared  forty-five,  and  was  not  quite  thirty-five. 
Although  weather-beaten  and  bronzed,  there  was  yet  a 
pinched  look  in  his  face,  which  was  peculiar.  He  was  work- 
ing in  an  old  field,  preparing  it  for  sweet  potatoes — those  om- 
nipresent, monotonous  vegetables  of  Florida  which  will  grow 
anywhere,  and  which  at  last,  with  their  ugly,  gray-mottled 
skins,  are  regarded  with  absolute  aversion  by  the  Northern 
visitor. 

The  furrows  of  half  a  century  before  were  still  visible  in 
the  field.  No  frost  had  disturbed  the  winterless  earth ;  no 
atom  had  changed  its  place,  save  where  the  gopher  had  bur- 
rowed beneath,  or  the  snake  left  its  waving  trail  above  in 
the  sand  which  constitutes  the  strange,  white,  desolate  soil, 
wherever  there  is  what  may  be  called  by  comparison  solid 
ground,  in  the  lake-dotted,  sieve-like  land.  There  are  many 
such  traces  of  former  cultivation  in  Florida :  we  come  sud- 
denly upon  old  tracks,  furrows,  and  drains  in  what  we  thought 
primeval  forest ;  rose-bushes  run  wild,  and  distorted  old  fig- 
trees  meet  us  in  a  jungle  where  we  supposed  no  white  man's 
foot  had  ever  before  penetrated ;  the  ruins  of  a  chimney  gleam 
whitely  through  a  waste  of  thorny  chaparral.  It  is  all  nat- 
ural enough,  if  one  stops  to  remember  that  fifty  years  before 
the  first  settlement  was  made  in  Virginia,  and  sixty-three 
before  the  Mayflower  touched  the  shores  of  the  New  World, 
there  were  flourishing  Spanish  plantations  on  this  Southern 
coast — more  flourishing,  apparently,  than  any  the  indolent 
peninsula  has  since  known.  But  one  does  not  stop  to  re- 
member it ;  the  belief  is  imbedded  in  all  our  Northern  hearts 
that,  because  the  narrow,  sun-bathed  State  is  far  away  and 
wild  and  empty,  it  is  also  new  and  virgin,  like  the  lands  of 
the  West ;  whereas  it  is  old — the  only  gray-haired  corner  our 
country  holds. 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  143 

Mark  Deal  worked  hard.  Perspiration  beaded  his  fore- 
head and  cheeks,  and  rolled  from  his  short,  thick,  red-brown 
hair.  He  worked  in  this  way  every  day  from  daylight  until 
dusk,  and  was  probably  the  only  white  man  in  the  State  who 
did.  When  his  task  was  finished,  he  made  a  circuit  around 
the  belt  of  thicket  through  which  the  six  paths  ran  to  his 
orange-grove  on  the  opposite  side.  On  the  way  he  skirted  an 
edge  of  the  sugar-plantation,  now  a  wide,  empty  waste,  with 
the  old  elevated  causeway  still  running  across  it.  On  its  far 
edge  loomed  the  great  cypresses  of  South  Devil,  a  swamp 
forty  miles  long ;  there  was  a  sister,  West  Devil,  not  far  away, 
equally  beautiful,  dark,  and  deadly.  Beyond  the  sugar  waste 
were  the  indigo-fields,  still  fenced  by  their  old  ditches.  Then 
came  the  orange-grove ;  luxuriant,  shady  word — the  orange- 
grove  ! 

It  was  a  space  of  level  white  sand,  sixty  feet  square,  ferti- 
lized a  century  before  with  pounded  oyster-shells,  in  the  Span- 
ish fashion.  Planted  in  even  rows  across  it,  tied  to  stakes, 
were  slips  of  green  stem,  each  with  three  leaves — forlorn  little 
plants,  five  or  six  inches  in  height.  But  the  stakes  were  new 
and  square  and  strong,  and  rose  to  Deal's  shoulder;  they 
were  excellent  stakes,  and  made  quite  a  grove  of  themselves, 
firm,  if  somewhat  bare. 

Deal  worked  in  his  grove  until  sunset ;  then  he  shouldered 
his  tools  and  went  homeward  through  one  of  the  arched  aisles 
to  the  little  plaza  within,  where  stood  his  two-roomed  house 
with  its  red  cotton  door.  His  brother  was  still  sleeping  on 
the  sand,  at  least,  his  eyes  were  closed.  Deal  put  his  tools  in 
a  rack  behind  the  house,  and  then  crossed  to  where  he  lay. 

"  You  should  not  sleep  here  after  sunset,  Carl,"  he  said, 
somewhat  roughly.  "  You  know  better  ;  why  do  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  asleep,"  answered  the  other,  sitting  up,  and  then 
slowly  getting  on  his  feet.  "  Heigh-ho  !  What  are  you  going 
to  have  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  You  are  tired,  Carl ;  and  I  see  the  reason.  You  have 
been  in  the  swamp."  Deal's  eyes  as  he  spoke  were  fixed 


144 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


upon  the  younger  man's  shoes,  where  traces  of  the  ink-black 
soil  of  South  Devil  were  plainly  visible. 

Carl  laughed.  "  Can't  keep  anything  from  your  Yankee 
eyes,  can  I,  Mark  ?  "  he  said.  "  But  I  only  went  a  little  way." 

"  It  isn't  the  distance,  it's  the  folly,"  said  Mark,  shortly, 
going  toward  the  house. 

"  I  never  pretended  to  be  wise,"  answered  Carl,  slouching 
along  behind  him,  with  his  hands  wrapped  in  his  blue  cotton 
handkerchief,  arranged  like  a  muff. 

Although  Deal  worked  hard  in  his  fields  all  day,  he  did 
not  cook.  In  a  third  out-building  lived  a  gray-headed  old 
negro  with  one  eye,  who  cooked  for  the  new  tenant — and 
cooked  well.  His  name  was  Scipio,  but  Carl  called  him  Af- 
ricanus  ;  he  said  it  was  equally  appropriate,  and  sounded 
more  impressive.  Scip's  kitchen  was  out-of-doors — simply 
an  old  Spanish  chimney.  His  kettle  and  few  dishes,  when 
not  in  use,  hung  on  the  sides  of  this  chimney,  which  now,  all 
alone  in  the  white  sand,  like  an  obelisk,  cooked  solemnly  the 
old  negro's  messes,  as  half  a  century  before  it  had  cooked  the 
more  dignified  repasts  of  the  dead  hidalgos.  The  brothers 
ate  in  the  open  air  also,  sitting  at  a  rough  board  table  which 
Mark  had  made  behind  the  house.  They  had  breakfast  soon 
after  daylight,  and  at  sunset  dinner  ;  in  the  middle  of  the 
day  they  took  only  fruit  and  bread. 

"  Day  after  to-morrow  will  be  Christmas,"  said  Carl, 
leaving  the  table  and  lighting  his  long  pipe.  "  What  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  doing  anything  in  particular." 

"  Well,  at  least  don't  work  on  Christmas  day." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

Carl  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  gazed  at  his  broth- 
er in  silence  for  a  moment.  "  Go  into  the  swamp  with  me," 
he  urged,  with  sudden  vehemence.  "  Come — for  the  whole 
day ! " 

Deal  was  smoking,  too,  a  short  clay  pipe,  very  different 
from  the  huge,  fantastic,  carved  bowl  with  long  stem  which 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  145 

weighed  down  Carl's  thin  mouth.  "  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  you,  boy.  You  are  mad  about  the  swamp,"  he  said, 
smoking  on  calmly. 

They  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  house  now,  in  two  chairs 
tilted  back  against  its  wall.  The  dark,  odorous  earth  looked 
up  to  the  myriad  stars,  but  was  not  lighted  by  them ;  a  soft, 
languorous  gloom  lay  over  the  land.  Carl  brushed  away  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe  impatiently. 

"  It's  because  you  can't  understand,"  he  said.  "  The 
swamp  haunts  me.  I  must  see  it  once ;  you  will  be  wise  to 
let  me  see  it  once.  We  might  go  through  in  a  canoe  togeth- 
er by  the  branch  ;  the  branch  goes  through." 

"  The  water  goes,  no  doubt,  but  a  canoe  couldn't." 

"  Yes,  it  could,  with  an  axe.  It  has  been  done.  They 
used  to  go  up  to  San  Miguel  that  way  sometimes  from  here  ; 
it  shortens  the  distance  more  than  half." 

"  Who  told  you  all  this — Scip  ?  What  does  he  know 
about  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Africanus  has  seen  several  centuries ;  the  Spaniards 
were  living  here  only  fifty  years  ago,  you  know,  and  that's 
nothing  to  him.  He  remembers  the  Indian  attack." 

"  Ponce  de  Leon,  too,  I  suppose ;  or,  to  go  back  to  the  old 
country,  Cleopatra.  But  you  must  give  up  the  swamp,  Carl. 
I  positively  forbid  it.  The  air  inside  is  thick  and  deadly,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  other  dangers.  How  do  you  suppose  it 
gained  its  name  ?  " 

"  Diabolus  is  common  enough  as  a  title  among  Spaniards 
and  Italians ;  it  don't  mean  anything.  The  prince  of  dark- 
ness never  lives  in  the  places  called  by  his  name ;  he  likes 
baptized  cities  better." 

"Death  lives  there,  however;  and  I  brought  you  down 
here  to  cure  you." 

"  I'm  all  right.  See  how  much  stronger  I  am !  I  shall 
soon  be  quite  well  again,  old  man,"  answered  Carl,  with  the 
strange,  sanguine  faith  of  the  consumptive. 

The  next  day  Deal  worked  very  hard.  He  had  a  curious, 
7 


146  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

inflexible,  possibly  narrow  kind  of  conscience,  which  required 
him  to  do  double  duty  to-day  in  order  to  make  up  for  the 
holiday  granted  to  Carl  to-morrow.  There  was  no  task- 
master over  him  ;  even  the  seasons  were  not  task-masters 
here.  But  so  immovable  were  his  own  rules  for  himself  that 
nothing  could  have  induced  him  to  abate  one  jot  of  the  task  he 
had  laid  out  in  his  own  mind  when  he  started  afield  at  dawn. 

When  he  returned  home  at  sunset,  somewhat  later  than 
usual,  Carl  was  absent.  Old  Scipio  could  give  no  informa- 
tion;  he  had  not  seen  "young  marse  "  since  early  morning. 
Deal  put  up  his  tools,  ate  something,  and  then,  with  a  flask 
in  his  pocket,  a  fagot  of  light-wood  torches  bound  on  his 
back,  and  one  of  these  brilliant,  natural  flambeaux  in  his  hand, 
he  started  away  on  his  search,  going  down  one  of  the  orange- 
aisles,  the  light  gleaming  back  through  the  arch  till  he  reached 
the  far  end,  when  it  disappeared.  He  crossed  an  old  indigo- 
field,  and  pushed  his  way  through  its  hedge  of  Spanish-bayo- 
nets, while  the  cacti  sown  along  the  hedge — small,  flat  green 
plates  with  white  spines,  like  hideous  tufted  insects — fastened 
themselves  viciously  on  the  strong  leather  of  his  high  boots. 
Then,  reaching  the  sugar  waste,  he  advanced  a  short  distance 
on  the  old  causeway,  knelt  down,  and  in  the  light  of  the  torch 
examined  its  narrow,  sandy  level.  Yes,  there  were  the  foot- 
prints he  had  feared  to  find.  Carl  had  gone  again  into  the 
poisonous  swamp — the  beautiful,  deadly  South  Devil.  And 
this  time  he  had  not  come  back. 

The  elder  brother  rose,  and  with  the  torch  held  downward 
slowly  traced  the  footmarks.  There  was  a  path,  or  rather 
trail,  leading  in  a  short  distance.  The  footprints  followed  it 
as  far  as  it  went,  and  the  brother  followed  the  footprints,  the 
red  glare  of  the  torch  foreshortening  each  swollen,  gray-white 
cypress-trunk,  and  giving  to  the  dark,  hidden  pools  below 
bright  gleamings  which  they  never  had  by  day.  He  soon 
came  to  the  end  of  the  trail ;  here  he  stopped  and  shouted 
loudly  several  times,  with  pauses  between  for  answer.  No 
answer  came. 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


H7 


"  But  I  know  the  trick  of  this  thick  air,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  One  can't  hear  anything  in  a  cypress-swamp." 

He  was  now  obliged  to  search  closely  for  the  footprints, 
pausing  at  each  one,  having  no  idea  in  which  direction  the 
next  would  tend.  The  soil  did  not  hold  the  impressions  well ; 
it  was  not  mud  or  mire,  but  wet,  spongy,  fibrous,  black  earth, 
thinly  spread  over  the  hard  roots  of  trees,  which  protruded  in 
distorted  shapes  in  every  direction.  He  traced  what  seemed 
footmarks  across  an  open  space,  and  then  lost  them  on  the 
brink  of  a  dark  pool.  If  Carl  had  kept  on,  he  must  have 
crossed  this  pool;  but  how?  On  the  sharp  cypress-knees 
standing  sullenly  in  the  claret-colored  water  ?  He  went  all 
around  the  open  space  again,  seeking  for  footmarks  else- 
where ;  but  no,  they  ended  at  the  edge  of  the  pool.  Cutting 
a  long  stick,  he  made  his  way  across  by  its  aid,  stepping  from 
knee-point  to  knee-point.  On  the  other  side  he  renewed  his 
search  for  the  trail,  and  after  some  labor  found  it,  and  went 
on  again. 

He  toiled  forward  slowly  in  this  way  a  long  time,  his  course 
changing  often  ;  Carl's  advance  seemed  to  have  been  aimless. 
Then,  suddenly,  the  footprints  ceased.  There  was  not  an- 
other one  visible  anywhere,  though  he  searched  in  all  direc- 
tions again  and  again.  He  looked  at  his  watch  ;  it  was  mid- 
night. He  hallooed  ;  no  reply.  What  could  have  become  of 
the  lad  ?  He  now  began  to  feel  his  own  fatigue  ;  after  the  long 
day  of  toil  in  the  hot  sun,  these  hours  of  laboring  over  the 
ground  in  a  bent  position,  examining  it  inch  by  inch,  brought 
on  pains  in  his  shoulders  and  back.  Planting  the  torch  he  was 
carrying  in  the  soft  soil  of  a  little  knoll,  he  placed  another  one 
near  it,  and  sat  down  between  the  two  flames  to  rest  for  a 
minute  or  two,  pouring  out  for  himself  a  little  brandy  in  the 
bottom  of  the  cup  belonging  to  his  flask.  He  kept  strict 
watch  as  he  did  this.  Venomous  things,  large  and  small, 
filled  the  vines  above,  and  might  drop  at  any  moment  upon 
him.  But  he  had  quick  eyes  and  ears,  and  no  intention  of 
dying  in  the  South  Devil ;  so,  while  he  watched  keenly,  he  took 


148  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

the  time  to  swallow  the  brandy.  After  a  moment  or  two  he 
was  startled  by  a  weak  human  voice  saying,  with  faint  deci- 
sion, "  That's  brandy  ! " 

"  I  should  say  it  was,"  called  Deal,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  Where  are  you,  then  ?  " 

"  Here." 

The  rescuer  followed  the  sound,  and,  after  one  or  two 
errors,  came  upon  the  body  of  his  brother  lying  on  a  dank 
mat  of  water-leaves  and  ground-vines  at  the  edge  of  a  pool. 
In  the  red  light  of  the  torch  he  looked  as  though  he  was  dead  ; 
his  eyes  only  were  alive. 

"  Brandy,"  he  said  again,  faintly,  as  Deal  appeared. 

After  he  had  swallowed  a  small  quantity  of  the  stimulant, 
he  revived  with  unexpected  swiftness. 

"  I  have  been  shouting  for  you  not  fifty  feet  away,"  said 
Deal ;  "  how  is  it  that  you  did  not  hear  ?  "  Then  in  the  same 
breath,  in  a  soft  undertone,  he  added,  "  Ah-h-h-h !  "  and  with- 
out stirring  a  hair's  breadth  from  where  he  stood,  or  making 
an  unnecessary  motion,  he  slowly  drew  forth  his  pistol,  took 
careful  aim,  and  fired.  He  was  behind  his  brother,  who  lay 
with  closed  eyes,  not  noticing  the  action. 

"  What  have  you  killed  ?  "  asked  Carl  languidly.  "  I  Ve 
seen  nothing  but  birds ;  and  the  most  beautiful  ones,  too." 

"  A  moccasin,  that's  all,"  said  Deal,  kicking  the  dead  crea- 
ture into  the  pool.  He  did  not  add  that  the  snake  was  coiled 
for  a  spring.  "  Let  us  get  back  to  the  little  knoll  where  I  was, 
Carl ;  it's  drier  there." 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  walk,  old  man.  I  fell  from  the  vines 
up  there,  and  something's  the  matter  with  my  ankles." 

"  Well,  I  can  carry  you  that  distance,"  said  Deal.  "  Put 
your  arms  around  my  neck,  and  raise  yourself  as  I  lift  you — 
so." 

The  burning  flambeau  on  the  knoll  served  as  a  guide,  and, 
after  one  or  two  pauses,  owing  to  the  treacherous  footing,  the 
elder  brother  succeeded  in  carrying  the  other  thither.  He 
then  took  off  the  light  woolen  coat  he  had  put  on  before  en- 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


149 


taring  the  swamp,  spread  it  over  the  driest  part  of  the  little 
knoll,  and  laid  Carl  upon  it. 

"If  you  can  not  walk,"  he  said,  "we  shall  have  to  wait 
here  until  daylight.  I  could  not  carry  you  and  the  torch  also  ; 
and  the  footing  is  bad — there  are  twenty  pools  to  cross,  or  go 
around.  Fortunately,  we  have  light-wood  enough  to  burn  all 
night." 

He  lit  fresh  torches  and  arranged  them  at  the  four  corners 
of  their  little  knoll ;  then  he  began  to  pace  slowly  to  and  fro, 
like  a  picket  walking  his  beat. 

"  What  were  you  doing  up  among  those  vines  ?  "  he  asked. 
He  knew  that  it  would  be  better  for  them  both  if  they  could 
keep  themselves  awake ;  those  who  fell  asleep  in  the  night  air 
of  South  Devil  generally  awoke  the  next  morning  in  another 
world. 

"  I  climbed  up  a  ladder  of  vines  to  gather  some  of  the 
great  red  blossoms  swinging  in  the  air ;  and,  once  up,  I  went 
along  on  the  mat  to  see  what  I  could  find.  It's  beautiful 
there — fairy-land.  You  can't  see  anything  down  below,  but 
above  the  long  moss  hangs  in  fine,  silvery  lines  like  spray  from 
ever  so  high  up,  and  mixed  with  it  air-plants,  sheafs,  and  bells 
of  scarlet  and  cream-colored  blossoms.  I  sat  there  a  long 
time  looking,  and  I  suppose  I  must  have  dozed ;  for  I  don't 
know  when  I  fell." 

"  You  did  not  hear  me  shout  ?  " 

"No.  The  first  consciousness  I  had  was  the  odor  of 
brandy." 

"  The  odor  reached  you,  and  the  sound  did  not ;  that  is 
one  of  the  tricks  of  such  air  as  this  !  You  must  have  climbed 
up,  I  suppose,  at  the  place  where  I  lost  the  trail.  What  time 
did  you  come  in  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  murmured  Carl  drowsily. 

"  Look  here  !  you  must  keep  awake  ! " 

"  I  can't,"  answered  the  other. 

Deal  shook  him,  but  could  not  rouse  him  even  to  anger. 
He  only  opened  his  blue  eyes  and  looked  reproachfully  at  his 


1So  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

brother,  but  as  though  he  was  a  long  distance  off.  Then  Deal 
lifted  him  up,  uncorked  the  flask,  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Drink ! "  he  said,  loudly  and  sternly  ;  and  mechanically 
Carl  obeyed.  Once  or  twice  his  head  moved  aside,  as  if  re- 
fusing more ;  but  Deal  again  said,  "  Drink ! "  and  without 
pity  made  the  sleeper  swallow  every  drop  the  flask  contained. 
Then  he  laid  him  down  upon  the  coat  again,  and  covered  his 
face  and  head  with  his  own  broad-brimmed  palmetto  hat, 
Carl's  hat  having  been  lost.  He  had  done  all  he  could — 
changed  the  lethargy  of  the  South  Devil  into  the  sleep  of 
drunkenness,  the  last  named  at  least  a  human  slumber.  He 
was  now  left  to  keep  the  watch  alone. 

During  the  first  half  hour  a  dozen  red  and  green  things, 
of  the  centipede  and  scorpion  kind,  stupefied  by  the  glare  of 
the  torches,  fell  from  the  trees;  and  he  dispatched  them. 
Next,  enormous  grayish-white  spiders,  in  color  exactly  like 
the  bark,  moved  slowly  one  furred  leg  into  view,  and  then  an- 
other, on  the  trunks  of  the  cypresses  near  by,  gradually  com- 
ing wholly  into  the  light — creatures  covering  a  circumference 
as  large  as  that  of  a  plate.  At  length  the  cypresses  all 
around  the  knoll  were  covered  with  them  ;  and  they  all  seemed 
to  be  watching  him.  He  was  not  watching  the  spiders,  how- 
ever; he  cared  very  little  for  the  spiders.  His  eyes  were 
upon  the  ground  all  the  time,  moving  along  the  borders  of  his 
little  knoll-fort.  It  was  bounded  on  two  sides  by  pools,  in 
whose  dark  depths  he  knew  moccasins  were  awake,  watching 
the  light,  too,  with  whatever  of  curiosity  belongs  to  a  snake's 
cold  brain.  His  torches  aroused  them  ;  and  yet  darkness  would 
have  been  worse.  In  the  light  he  could  at  least  see  them,  if 
they  glided  forth  and  tried  to  ascend  the  brilliant  knoll.  After 
a  while  they  began  to  rise  to  the  surface ;  he  could  distinguish 
portions  of  their  bodies  in  waving  lines,  moving  noiselessly 
hither  and  thither,  appearing  and  disappearing  suddenly,  until 
the  pools  around  seemed  alive  with  them.  There  was  not  a 
sound ;  the  soaked  forest  stood  motionless.  The  absolute 
stillness  made  the  quick  gliding  motions  of  the  moccasins 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  151 

even  more  horrible.  Yet  Deal  had  no  instinctive  dread  of 
snakes.  The  terrible  "  coach-whip,"  the  deadly  and  gro- 
tesque spread-adder,  the  rattlesnake  of  the  barrens,  and  these 
great  moccasins  of  the  pools  were  endowed  with  no  imagi- 
nary horrors  in  his  eyes.  He  accepted  them  as  nature  made 
them,  and  not  as  man's  fancy  painted  them ;  it  was  only  their 
poison-fangs  he  feared. 

"  If  the  sea-crab  could  sting,  how  hideous  we  should 
think  him !  If  the  lobster  had  a  deadly  venom,  how  devilish 
his  shape  would  seem  to  us  ! "  he  said. 

But  now  no  imagination  was  required  to  make  the  moc- 
casins terrible.  His  revolver  carried  six  balls;  and  he  had 
already  used  one  of  them.  Four  hours  must  pass  before 
dawn ;  there  could  be  no  unnecessary  shooting.  The  crea- 
tures might  even  come  out  and  move  along  the  edge  of  his 
knoll ;  only  when  they  showed  an  intention  of  coming  up  the 
slope  must  their  gliding  life  be  ended.  The  moccasin  is  not  a 
timorous  or  quick-nerved  snake;  in  a  place  like  the  South 
Devil,  when  a  human  foot  or  boat  approaches,  generally  he 
does  not  stir.  His  great  body,  sometimes  over  six  feet  in 
length,  and  thick  and  fat  in  the  middle,  lies  on  a  log  or  at  the 
edge  of  a  pool,  seemingly  too  lazy  to  move.  But  none  the 
less,  when  roused,  is  his  coil  sudden  and  his  long  spring  sure ; 
his  venom  is  deadly.  After  a  time  one  of  the  creatures  did 
come  out  and  glide  along  the  edge  of  the  knoll.  He  went 
back  into  the  water;  but  a  second  came  out  on  the  other 
side.  During  the  night  Deal  killed  three ;  he  was  an  excel- 
lent marksman,  and  picked  them  off  easily  as  they  crossed 
his  dead-line. 

"  Fortunately  they  come  one  by  one,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  If  there  was  any  concert  of  action  among  them,  I  couldn't 
hold  the  place  a  minute." 

As  the  last  hour  began,  the  long  hour  before  dawn,  he  felt 
the  swamp  lethargy  stealing  into  his  own  brain  ;  he  saw  the 
trees  and  torches  doubled.  He  walked  to  and  fro  more  quickly, 
and  sang  to  keep  himself  awake.  He  knew  only  a  few  old- 


152 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


fashioned  songs,  and  the  South  Devil  heard  that  night,  prob- 
ably for  the  first  time  in  its  tropical  life,  the  ancient  Northern 
strains  of  "  Gayly  the  Troubadour  touched  his  Guitar."  Deal 
was  no  troubadour,  and  he  had  no  guitar.  But  he  sang  on 
bravely,  touching  that  stringed  instrument,  vocally  at  least, 
and  bringing  himself  "  home  from  the  war "  over  and  over 
again,  until  at  last  faint  dawn  penetrated  from  above  down  to 
the  knoll  where  the  four  torches  were  burning.  They  were 
the  last  torches,  and  Deal  was  going  through  his  sixtieth 
rehearsal  of  the  "  Troubadour  "  ;  but,  instead  of  "  Lady-love, 
lady-lo-o-o-ve,"  whom  he  apostrophized,  a  large  moccasin 
rose  from  the  pool,  as  if  in  answer.  She  might  have  been  the 
queen  of  the  moccasins,  and  beautiful — to  moccasin  eyes ; 
but  to  Deal  she  was  simply  the  largest  and  most  hideous  of 
all  the  snake-visions  of  the  night.  He  gave  her  his  fifth  ball, 
full  in  her  mistaken  brain ;  and,  if  she  had  admired  him  (or 
the  "  Troubadour  "),  she  paid  for  it  with  her  life. 

This  was  the  last.  Daylight  appeared.  The  watchman 
put  out  his  torches  and  roused  the  sleeper.  "  Carl !  Carl ! 
It's  daylight.  Let  us  get  out  of  this  confounded  crawling 
hole,  and  have  a  breath  of  fresh  air." 

Carl  stirred,  and  opened  nis  eyes ;  they  were  heavy  and 
dull.  His  brother  lifted  him,  told  him  to  hold  on  tightly,  and 
started  with  his  burden  toward  home.  The  snakes  had  dis- 
appeared, the  gray  spiders  had  vanished;  he  could  see  his 
way  now,  and  he  followed  his  own  trail,  which  he  had  taken 
care  to  make  distinct  when  he  came  in  the  night  before. 
But,  loaded  down  as  he  was,  and  obliged  to  rest  frequently, 
and  also  to  go  around  all  the  pools,  hours  passed  before  he 
reached  the  last  cypresses  and  came  out  on  the  old  causeway 
across  the  sugar-waste. 

It  was  Christmas  morning;  the  thermometer  stood  at 
eighty-eight. 

Carl  slept  off  his  enforced  drunkenness  in  his  hammock. 
Mark,  having  bandaged  his  brother's  strained  ankles,  threw 
himself  upon  his  rude  couch,  and  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  153 

also.  He  slept  until  sunset ;  then  he  rose,  plunged  his  head 
into  a  tub  of  the  limpid,  pure,  but  never  cold  water  of  Flori- 
da, drawn  from  his  shallow  well,  and  went  out  to  the  chimney 
to  see  about  dinner.  The  chimney  was  doing  finely  :  a  fiery 
plume  of  sparks  waved  from  its  white  top,  a  red  bed  of  coals 
glowed  below.  Scip  moved  about  with  as  much  equanimity 
as  though  he  had  a  row  of  kitchen-tables  upon  which  to  ar- 
range his  pans  and  dishes,  instead  of  ruined  blocks  of  stone, 
under  the  open  sky.  The  dinner  was  good.  Carl,  awake  at 
last,  was  carried  out  to  the  table  to  enjoy  it,  and  then  brought 
back  to  his  chair  in  front  of  the  house  to  smoke  his  evening 
pipe. 

"  I  must  make  you  a  pair  of  crutches,"  said  Deal. 

"  One  will  do  ;  my  right  ankle  is  not  much  hurt,  I  think." 

The  fall,  the  air  of  the  swamp,  and  the  inward  drenching 
of  brandy  had  left  Carl  looking  much  as  usual ;  the  tenacious 
disease  that  held  him  swallowed  the  lesser  ills.  But  for  the 
time,  at  least,  his  wandering  footsteps  were  staid. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  my  asking,  Carl,  why  you 
went  in  there  ?  "  said  Deal,  after  a  while. 

"  No,  there  isn't.     I'm  haunted — that's  all." 

"  But  what  is  it  that  haunts  you  ?  " 

"  Sounds.  You  couldn't  understand,  though,  if  I  was  to 
talk  all  night." 

"  Perhaps  I  could  ;  perhaps  I  can  understand  more  than 
you  imagine.  I'll  tell  you  a  story  presently ;  but  first  you 
must  explain  to  me,  at  least  as  well  as  you  can,  what  it  is  that 
attracts  you  in  South  Devil." 

"  Oh — well,"  said  Carl,  with  a  long,  impatient  sigh,  closing 
his  eyes  wearily.  "  I  am  a  musician,  you  know,  a  musician 
manque" ;  a  musician  who  can't  play.  Something's  the  mat- 
ter ;  I  hear  music,  but  can  not  bring  it  out.  And  I  know  so 
well  what  it  ought  to  be,  ought  to  be  and  isn't,  that  I've  broken 
my  violin  in  pieces  a  dozen  times  in  my  rages  about  it.  Now, 
other  fellows  in  orchestras,  who  dorit  know,  get  along  very 
well.  But  I  couldn't.  I've  thought  at  times  that,  although  I 


154  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

can  not  sound  what  I  hear  with  my  own  hands,  perhaps  I 
could  write  it  out  so  that  other  men  could  sound  it.  The 
idea  has  never  come  to  anything  definite  yet — that  is,  what 
you  would  call  definite ;  but  it  haunts  me  persistently,  and 
now  it  has  got  into  that  swamp.  The  wish,"  here  Carl  laid 
down  his  great  pipe,  and  pressed  his  hand  eagerly  upon  his 
brother's  knee — "  the  wish  that  haunts  me — drives  me — is  to 
write  out  the  beautiful  music  of  the  South  Devil,  the  sounds 
one  hears  in  there  " — 

"  But  there  are  no  sounds." 

"  No  sounds  ?  You  must  be  deaf  !  The  air  fairly  reeks 
with  sounds,  with  harmonies.  But  there — I  told  you  you 
couldn't  understand."  He  leaned  back  against  the  wall  again, 
and  took  up  the  great  pipe,  which  looked  as  though  it  must 
consume  whatever  small  store  of  strength  remained  to  him. 

"  Is  it  what  is  called  an  opera  you  want  to  write,  like — like 
the  '  Creation,'  for  instance  ?  "  asked  Deal.  The  "  Creation  " 
was  the  only  long  piece  of  music  he  had  ever  heard. 

Carl  groaned.  "  Oh,  don't  talk  of  it ! "  he  said ;  then  add- 
ed, irritably,  "  It's  a  song,  that's  all — the  song  of  a  Southern 
swamp." 

"  Call  it  by  it's  real  name,  Devil,"  said  the  elder  brother, 
grimly. 

"  I  would,  if  I  was  rich  enough  to  have  a  picture  painted 
— the  Spirit  of  the  Swamp — a  beautiful  woman,  falsely  called 
a  devil  by  cowards,  dark,  languorous,  mystical,  sleeping  among 
the  vines  I  saw  up  there,  with  the  great  red  blossoms  drop- 
ping around  her." 

"And  the  great  mottled  snakes  coiling  over  her? " 

"  /  didn't  see  any  snakes." 

"  Well,"  said  Mark,  refilling  his  pipe,  "  now  I'm  going  to 
tell  you  my  story.  When  I  met  you  on  that  windy  pier  at 
Exton,  and  proposed  that  you  should  come  down  here  with 
me,  I  was  coming  myself,  in  any  case,  wasn't  I  ?  And  why  ? 
I  wanted  to  get  to  a  place  where  I  could  be  warm — warm, 
hot,  baked  ;  warm  through  and  through ;  warm  all  the  time. 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  155 

I  wanted  to  get  to  a  place  where  the  very  ground  was  warm. 
And  now — I'll  tell  you  why." 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  laid  down  his  pipe,  and,  extending 
his  hand,  spoke  for  about  fifteen  minutes  without  pause. 
Then  he  turned,  went  back  hastily  to  the  old  chimney,  where 
red  coals  still  lingered,  and  sat  down  close  to  the  glow,  leaving 
Carl  wonder-struck  in  his  tilted  chair.  The  elder  man  leaned 
over  the  fire  and  held  his  hands  close  to  the  coals;  Carl 
watched  him.  It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  thermometer 
marked  eighty. 

For  nearly  a  month  after  Christmas,  life  on  the  old  planta- 
tion went  on  without  event  or  disaster.  Carl,  with  his  crutch 
and  cane,  could  not  walk  far ;  his  fancy  now  was  to  limp 
through  the  east  orange-aisle  to  the  place  of  tombs,  and  sit 
there  for  hours,  playing  softly,  what  might  be  called  crooning, 
on  his  violin.  The  place  of  tombs  was  a  small,  circular  space 
surrounded  by  wild  orange-trees  in  a  close,  even  row,  like  a 
hedge ;  here  were  four  tombs,  massive,  oblong  blocks  of  the 
white  conglomerate  of  the  coast,  too  coarse-grained  to  hold 
inscription  or  mark  of  any  kind.  Who  the  old  Spaniards  were 
whose  bones  lay  beneath,  and  what  names  they  bore  in  the 
flesh,  no  one  knew ;  all  record  was  lost.  Outside  in  the  wild 
thicket  was  a  tomb  still  more  ancient,  and  of  different  con- 
struction: four  slabs  of  stone,  uncovered,  about  three  feet 
high,  rudely  but  firmly  placed,  as  though  inclosing  a  coffin. 
In  the  earth  between  these  low  walls  grew  a  venerable  cedar ; 
but,  old  as  it  was,  it  must  have  been  planted  by  chance  or  by 
hand  after  the  human  body  beneath  had  been  laid  in  its  place. 

"  Why  do  you  come  here  ?  "  said  Deal,  pausing  and  look- 
ing into  the  place  of  tombs,  one  morning,  on  his  way  to  the 
orange-grove.  "  There  are  plenty  of  pleasanter  spots  about." 

"  No ;  I  like  this  better,'-  answered  Carl,  without  stopping 
the  low  chant  of  his  violin.  "  Besides,  they  like  it  too." 

"Who?" 

"  The  old  fellows  down  below.  The  chap  outside  there, 
who  must  have  been  an  Aztec,  I  suppose,  and  the  original 


156  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

proprietor,  catches  a  little  of  it ;  but  I  generally  limp  over  and 
give  him  a  tune  to  himself  before  going  home.  I  have  to 
imagine  the  Aztec  style." 

Mark  gave  a  short  laugh,  and  went  on  to  his  work.  But 
he  knew  the  real  reason  for  Carl's  fancy  for  the  place ;  be- 
tween the  slim,  clean  trunks  of  the  orange-trees,  the  long 
green  line  of  South  Devil  bounded  the  horizon,  the  flat  tops 
of  the  cypresses  far  above  against  the  sky,  and  the  vines  and 
silver  moss  filling  the  space  below — a  luxuriant  wall  across 
the  broad,  thinly-treed  expanses  of  the  pine  barrens. 

One  evening  in  January  Deal  came  homeward  as  usual  at 
sunset,  and  found  a  visitor.  Carl  introduced  him.  "  My 
friend  Schwartz,"  he  said.  Schwartz  merited  his  name ;  he 
was  dark  in  complexion,  hair,  and  eyes,  and  if  he  had  any 
aims  they  were  dark  also.  He  was  full  of  anecdotes  and  jests, 
and  Carl  laughed  heartily ;  Mark  had  never  heard  him  laugh 
in  that  way  before.  The  elder  brother  ordered  a  good  supper, 
and  played  the  host  as  well  as  he  could ;  but,  in  spite  of  the 
anecdotes,  he  did  not  altogether  like  friend  Schwartz.  Early 
the  next  morning,  while  the  visitor  was  still  asleep,  he  called 
Carl  outside,  and  asked  in  an  undertone  who  he  was. 

"  Oh,  I  met  him  first  in  Berlin,  and  afterward  I  knew  him 
in  New  York,"  said  Carl.  "  All  the  orchestra  fellows  know 
Schwartz." 

"  Is  he  a  musician,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly ;  but  he  used  to  be  always  around,  you 
know." 

"  How  comes  he  down  here  ?  " 

"  Just  chance.  He  had  an  offer  from  a  sort  of  a — of  a 
restaurant,  up  in  San  Miguel,  a  new  place  recently  opened. 
The  other  day  he  happened  to  find  out  that  I  was  here,  and 
so  came  down  to  see  me." 

"  How  did  he  find  out  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  gave  our  names  toUhe  agent  when  you 
took  the  place,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  gave  mine ;  and — yes,  I  think  I  mentioned  you." 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


157 


"  If  you  didn't,  I  mentioned  myself.  I  was  at  San  Miguel, 
two  weeks  you  remember,  while  you  were  making  ready  down 
here ;  and  I  venture  to  say  almost  everybody  remembers  Carl 
Brenner." 

Mark  smiled.  Carl's  fixed,  assured  self-conceit  in  the  face 
of  the  utter  failure  he  had  made  of  his  life  did  not  annoy,  but 
rather  amused  him ;  it  seemed  part  of  the  lad's  nature. 

"  I  don't  want  to  grudge  you  your  amusement,  Carl,"  he 
said ;  "  but  I  don't  much  like  this  Schwartz  of  yours." 

"  He  won't  stay ;  he  has  to  go  back  to-day.  He  came  in 
a  cart  with  a  man  from  San  Miguel,  who,  by  some  rare  chance, 
had  an  errand  down  this  forgotten,  God-forsaken,  dead-alive 
old  road.  The  man  will  pass  by  on  his  way  home  this  after- 
noon, and  Schwartz  is  to  meet  him  at  the  edge  of  the  bar- 
ren." 

"  Have  an  early  dinner,  then  ;  there  are  birds  and  venison, 
and  there  is  lettuce  enough  for  a  salad.  Scip  can  make  you 
some  coffee." 

But,  although  he  thus  proffered  his  best,  none  the  less  did 
the  elder  brother  take  with  him  the  key  of  the  little  chest 
which  contained  his  small  store  of  brandy  and  the  two  or 
three  bottles  of  orange  wine  which  he  had  brought  down  with 
him  from  San  Miguel. 

After  he  had  gone,  Schwartz  and  Carl  strolled  around  the 
plantation  in  the  sunshine.  Schwartz  did  not  care  to  sit 
down  among  Carl's  tombs ;  he  said  they  made  him  feel 
moldy.  Carl  argued  the  point  with  him  in  vain,  and  then 
gave  it  up,  and  took  him  around  to  the  causeway  across  the 
sugar-waste,  where  they  stretched  themselves  out  in  the  shade 
cast  by  the  ruined  wall  of  the  old  mill. 

"  What  brought  this  brother  of  yours  away  down  here  ?  " 
asked  the  visitor,  watching  a  chameleon  on  the  wall  near  by. 
"  See  that  little  beggar  swelling  out  his  neck  ! " 

"  He's  catching  flies.  In  a  storm  they  will  come  and  hang 
themselves  by  one  paw  on  our  windows,  and  the  wind  will 
blow  them  out  like  dead  leaves,  and  rattle  them  about,  and 


158  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

they'll  never  move.  But,  when  the  sun  shines  out,  there  they 
are  all  alive  again." 

"  But  about  your  brother  ?  " 

"  He  isn't  my  brother." 

"  What  ?  " 

"My  mother,  a  widow,  named  Brenner,  with  one  son, 
Carl,  married  his  father,  a  widower,  named  Deal,  with  one 
son,  Mark.  There  you  have  the  whole." 

"  He  is  a  great  deal  older  than  you.  I  suppose  he  has 
been  in  the  habit  of  assisting  you  ?  " 

"  Never  saw  him  in  my  life  until  this  last  October,  when, 
one  windy  day,  he  found  me  coughing  on  the  Exton  pier ; 
and,  soon  afterward,  he  brought  me  down  here." 

"  Came,  then,  on  your  account  ?  " 

"  By  no  means ;  he  was  coming  himself.  It's  a  queer 
story;  I'll  tell  it  to  you.  It  seems  he  went  with  the  Kenton 
Arctic  expedition — you  remember  it  ?  Two  of  the  ships  were 
lost ;  his  was  one.  But  I'll  have  to  get  up  and  say  it  as  he 
did."  Here  Carl  rose,  put  down  his  pipe,  extended  one  hand 
stiffly  in  a  fixed  position,  and  went  on  speaking,  his  very 
voice,  by  force  of  the  natural  powers  of  mimicry  he  possessed, 
sounding  like  Mark's : 

"  We  were  a  company  of  eight  when  we  started  away 
from  the  frozen  hulk,  which  would  never  see  clear  water  un- 
der her  bows  again.  Once  before  we  had  started,  thirty-five 
strong,  and  had  come  back  thirteen.  Five  had  died  in  the 
old  ship,  and  now  the  last  survivors  were  again  starting  forth. 
We  drew  a  sledge  behind  us,  carrying  our  provisions  and  the 
farcical  records  of  the  expedition  which  had  ended  in  death, 
as  they  must  all  end.  We  soon  lose  sight  of  the  vessel.  It 
was  our  only  shelter,  and  we  look  back  ;  then,  at  each  other. 
'  Cheer  up  ! '  says  one.  '  Take  this  extra  skin,  Mark  ;  I  am 
stronger  than  you.'  It's  Proctor's  voice  that  speaks.  Ten 
days  go  by.  There  are  only  five  of  us  now,  and  we  are  walk- 
ing on  doggedly  across  the  ice,  the  numbing  ice,  the  killing 
ice,  the  never-ending,  gleaming,  taunting,  devilisK  ice.  We 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  159 

have  left  the  sledge  behind.  No  trouble  now  for  each  to 
carry  his  share  of  food,  it  is  so  light.  Now  we  walk  together 
for  a  while ;  now  we  separate,  sick  of  seeing  one  another's 
pinched  faces,  but  we  keep  within  call.  On  the  eleventh  day 
a  wind  rises  ;  bergs  come  sailing  into  view.  One  moves  down 
upon  us.  Its  peak  shining  in  the  sunshine  far  above  is  no- 
thing to  the  great  mass  that  moves  on  under  the  water.  Our 
ice-field  breaks  into  a  thousand  pieces.  We  leap  from  block 
to  block  ;  we  cry  aloud  in  our  despair  ;  we  call  to  each  other, 
and  curse,  and  pray.  But  the  strips  of  dark  water  widen  be- 
tween us  ;  our  ice-islands  grow  smaller ;  and  a  current  bears 
us  onward.  We  can  no  longer  keep  in  motion,  and  freeze  as 
we  stand.  Two  float  near  each  other  as  darkness  falls ; 
'  Cheer  up,  Mark,  cheer  up  ! '  cries  one,  and  throws  his  flask 
across  the  gap  between.  Again  it  is  Proctor's  voice  that 
speaks. 

"  In  the  morning  only  one  is  left  alive.  The  others  are 
blocks  of  ice,  and  float  around  in  the  slow  eddy,  each  sol- 
emnly staring,  one  foot  advanced,  as  if  still  keeping  up  the 
poor  cramped  steps  with  which  he  had  fought  off  death.  The 
one  who  is  still  alive  floats  around  and  around,  with  these 
dead  men  standing  stiffly  on  their  islands,  all  day,  sometimes 
so  near  them  that  the  air  about  him  is  stirred  by  their  icy 
forms  as  they  pass.  At  evening  his  cake  drifts  away  through 
an  opening  toward  the  south,  and  he  sees  them  no  more, 
save  that  after  him  follows  his  dead  friend,  Proctor,  at  some 
distance  behind.  As  night  comes,  the  figure  seems  to  wave 
its  rigid  hand  in  the  distance,  and  cry  from  its  icy  throat, 
'  Cheer  up,  Mark,  and  good-by ! '" 

Here  Carl  stopped,  rubbed  his  hands,  shivered,  and  looked 
to  see  how  his  visitor  took  the  narrative. 

"  It's  a  pretty  cold  story,"  said  Schwartz,  "  even  in  this 
broiling  sun.  So  he  came  down  here  to  get  a  good,  full 
warm,  did  he  ?  He's  got  the  cash,  I  suppose,  to  pay  for  his 
fancies." 

"  I  don't  call  that  a  fancy,  exactly,"  said  Carl,  seating  him- 


160  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

self  on  the  hot  white  sand  in  the  sunshine,  with  his  thin  hands 
clasped  around  his  knees.  "  As  to  cash — I  don't  know.  He 
works  very  hard." 

"  He  works  because  he  likes  it,"  said  Schwartz,  contemp- 
tuously ;  "  he  looks  like  that  sort  of  a  man.  But,  at  any  rate, 
he  don't  make  you  work  much  !  " 

"  He  z's  awfully  good  to  me,"  admitted  Carl. 

"  It  isn't  on  account  of  your  beauty." 

"  Oh,  I'm  good  looking  enough  in  my  way,"  replied  the 
youth.  "  I  acknowledge  it  isn't  a  common  way  ;  like  yours, 
for  instance."  As  he  spoke,  he  passed  his  hand  through  his 
thin  light  hair,  drew  the  ends  of  the  long  locks  forward,  and 
examined  them  admiringly. 

"  As  he  never  saw  you  before,  it  couldn't  have  been 
brotherly  love,"  pursued  the  other.  "  I  suppose  it  was  pity." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  pity,  either,  you  old  blockhead,"  said  Carl, 
laughing.  "  He  likes  to  have  me  with  him  ;  he  likes  me." 

"I  see  that  myself,  and  that's  exactly  the  point.  Why 
should  he  ?  You  haven't  any  inheritance  to  will  to  him,  have 
you  ?  " 

"  My  violin,  and  the  clothes  on  my  back.  I  believe  that's 
all,"  answered  Carl,  lightly.  He  took  off  his  palmetto  hat, 
made  a  pillow  of  it,  and  stretched  himself  out  at  full  length, 
closing  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  give  me  a  brother  with  cash,  and  I'll  go  to  sleep, 
too,"  said  Schwartz.  When  Deal  came  home  at  sunset,  the 
dark-skinned  visitor  was  gone. 

But  he  came  again ;  and  this  time  stayed  three  days. 
Mark  allowed  it,  for  Carl's  sake.  All  he  said  was,  "  He  can 
not  be  of  much  use  in  the  restaurant  up  there.  What  is  he  ? 
Cook?  Or  waiter?" 

"  Oh,  Schwartz  isn't  a  servant,  old  fellow.  He  helps  en- 
tertain the  guests." 

"  Sings,  I  suppose." 

Carl  did  not  reply,  and  Deal  set  Schwartz  down  as  a  lager- 
beer-hall  ballad-singer,  borne  southward  on  the  tide  of  winter 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  161 

travel  to  Florida.  One  advantage  at  least  was  gained — when 
Schwartz  was  there,  Carl  was  less  tempted  by  the  swamp. 

And  now,  a  third  time,  the  guest  came.  During  the  first 
evening  of  this  third  visit,  he  was  so  good-tempered,  so  frank- 
ly lazy  and  amusing,  that  even  Deal  was  disarmed.  "  He's  a 
good-for-nothing,  probably ;  but  there's  no  active  harm  in 
him,"  he  said  to  himself. 

The  second  evening  was  a  repetition  of  the  first. 

When  he  came  home  at  sunset  on  the  third  evening,  Carl 
was  lying  coiled  up  close  to  the  wall  of  the  house,  his  face 
hidden  in  his  arms. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  "  said  Deal,  as  he  passed  by, 
on  his  way  to  put  up  the  tools. 

No  answer.  But  Carl  had  all  kinds  of  whims,  and  Deal 
was  used  to  them.  He  went  across  to  Scip's  chimney. 

"  Awful  time,  cap'en,"  said  the  old  negro,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Soon's  you's  gone,  dat  man  make  young  marse  drink,  and 
bot'  begin  to  holler  and  fight." 

"  Drink  ?    They  had  no'  liquor." 

"  Yes,  dey  hab.     Mus'  hab  brought  'em  'long." 

"  Where  is  the  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  gone  long  ago — gone  at  noon." 

Deal  went  to  his  brother.  "  Carl,"  he  said,  "  get  up. 
Dinner  is  ready."  But  the  coiled  form  did  not  stir. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  continued  Deal.  "  I  know  you've  been 
drinking ;  Scip  told  me.  It's  a  pity.  But  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  eat." 

Carl  did  not  move.  Deal  went  off  to  his  dinner,  and  sent 
some  to  Carl.  But  the  food  remained  untasted.  Then  Deal 
passed  into  the  house  to  get  some  tobacco  for  his  pipe.  Then 
a  loud  cry  was  heard.  The  hiding-place  which  his  Yankee 
fingers  had  skillfully  fashioned  in  the  old  wall  had  been  rifled ; 
all  his  money  was  gone.  No  one  knew  the  secret  of  the  spot 
but  Carl. 

"  Did  he  overpower  you  and  take  it  ?  "  he  asked,  kneeling 
down  and  lifting  Carl  by  force,  so  that  he  could  see  his  face. 


162  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

"No;  I  gave  it  to  him,"  Carl  answered,  thickly  and 
slowly. 

"  YaVigave  it  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  lost  it — at  cards." 

"Cards!" 

Deal  had  never  thought  of  that.  All  at  once  the  whole 
flashed  upon  him  :  the  gambler  who  was  always  "  around  " 
with  the  "orchestra  fellows " ;  the  "  restaurant "  at  San 
Miguel  where  he  helped  "  entertain  "  the  guests ;  the  proba- 
bility that  business  was  slack  in  the  ancient  little  town,  unac- 
customed to  such  luxuries ;  and  the  treasure-trove  of  an  old 
acquaintance  within  a  day's  journey — an  old  acquaintance 
like  Carl,  who  had  come  also  into  happy  possession  of  a  rich 
brother.  A  rich  brother ! — probably  that  was  what  Schwartz 
called  him ! 

At  any  rate,  rich  or  poor,  Schwartz  had  it  all.  With  the 
exception  of  one  hundred  dollars  which  he  had  left  at  San 
Miguel  as  a  deposit,  he  had  now  only  five  dollars  in  the 
world  ;  Carl  had  gambled  away  his  all. 

It  was  a  hard  blow. 

He  lifted  his  brother  in  his  arms  and  carried  him  in  to  his 
hammock.  A  few  minutes  later,  staff  in  hand,  he  started 
down  the  live-oak  avenue  toward  the  old  road  which  led 
northward  to  San  Miguel.  The  moonlight  was  brilliant ;  he 
walked  all  night.  At  dawn  he  was  searching  the  little  city. 

Yes,  the  man  was  known  there.  He  frequented  the  Es- 
meralda  Parlors.  The  Esmeralda  Parlors,  however,  repre- 
sented by  an  attendant,  a  Northern  mulatto,  with  straight 
features,  long,  narrow  eyes,  and  pale-golden  skin,  a  bronze 
piece  of  insolence,  who  was  also  more  faultlessly  dressed  than 
any  one  else  in  San  Miguel,  suavely  replied  that  Schwartz 
was  no  longer  one  of  their  "  guests  " ;  he  had  severed  his 
connection  with  the  Parlors  several  days  before.  Where  was 
he  ?  The  Parlors  had  no  idea. 

But  the  men  about  the  docks  knew.  Schwartz  had  been 
seen  the  previous  evening  negotiating  passage  at  the  last  mo- 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  163 

ment  on  a  coasting  schooner  bound  South — one  of  those 
nondescript  little  craft  engaged  in  smuggling  and  illegal  trad- 
ing, with  which  the  waters  of  the  West  Indies  are  infested. 
The  schooner  had  made  her  way  out  of  the  harbor  by  moon- 
light. Although  ostensibly  bound  for  Key  West,  no  one 
could  say  with  any  certainty  that  she  would  touch  there ; 
bribed  by  Schwartz,  with  all  the  harbors,  inlets,  and  lagoons 
of  the  West  Indies  open  to  her,  pursuit  would  be  worse  than 
hopeless.  Deal  realized  this.  He  ate  the  food  he  had  brought 
with  him,  drank  a  cup  of  coffee,  called  for  his  deposit,  and 
then  walked  back  to  the  plantation. 

When  he  came  into  the  little  plaza,  Carl  was  sitting  on  the 
steps  of  their  small  house.  His  head  was  clear  again ;  he 
looked  pale  and  wasted. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Deal.  "  I've  traced  him.  In  the  mean 
time,  don't  worry,  Carl.  If  I  don't  mind  it,  why  should  you  ?  " 

Without  saying  more,  he  went  inside,  changed  his  shoes, 
then  came  out,  ordered  dinner,  talked  to  Scip,  and  when  the 
meal  was  ready  called  Carl,  and  took  his  place  at  the  table  as 
though  nothing  had  happened.  Carl  scarcely  spoke  ;  Deal 
approved  his  silence.  He  felt  so  intensely  for  the  lad,  realized 
so  strongly  what  he  must  be  feeling — suffering  and  feeling — 
that  conversation  on  the  subject  would  have  been  at  that 
early  moment  unendurable.  But  waking  during  the  night, 
and  hearing  him  stirring,  uneasy,  and  apparently  feverish,  he 
went  across  to  the  hammock. 

"  You  are  worrying  about  it,  Carl,  and  you  are  not  strong 
enough  to  stand  worry.  Look  here — I  have  forgiven  you ;  I 
would  forgive  you  twice  as  much.  Have  you  no  idea  why  I 
brought  you  down  here  with  me  ?  " 

"  Because  you're  kind-hearted.  And  perhaps,  too,  you 
thought  it  would  be  lonely,"  answered  Carl. 

"  No,  I'm  not  kind-hearted,  and  I  never  was  lonely  in  my 
life.  I  didn't  intend  to  tell  you,  but — you  must  not  worry. 
It  is  your  name,  Carl,  and — and  your  blue  eyes.  I  was  fond 
of  Eliza." 


164  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

"  Fond  of  Leeza — Leeza  Brenner  ?  Then  why  on  earth 
didn't  you  marry  her  ?  "  said  Carl,  sitting  up  in  his  hammock, 
and  trying  to  see  his  step-brother's  face  in  the  moonlight 
that  came  through  the  chinks  in  the  shutters. 

Mark's  face  was  in  shadow.  "  She  liked  some  one  else 
better,"  he  said. 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  Never  mind.     But — yes,  I  will  tell  you — Graves." 

"  John  Graves  ?     That  dunce  ?    No,  she  didn't." 

"As  it  happens,  I  know  she  did.  But  we  won't  talk 
about  it.  I  only  told  you  to  show  you  why  I  cared  for 
you." 

"  /  wouldn't  care  about  a  girl  that  didn't  care  for  me," 
said  Carl,  still  peering  curiously  through  the  checkered  dark- 
ness. The  wizened  young  violin-player  fancied  himself  an 
omnipotent  power  among  women.  But  Deal  had  gone  to  his 
bed,  and  would  say  no  more. 

Carl  had  heard  something  now  which  deeply  astonished 
him.  He  had  not  been  much  troubled  about  the  lost  money ; 
it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  much  troubled  about  money  at 
any  time.  He  was  sorry ;  but  what  was  gone  was  gone ; 
why  waste  thought  upon  it?  This  he  called  philosophy. 
Mark,  out  of  regard  for  Carl's  supposed  distress,  had  forbid- 
den conversation  on  the  subject ;  but  he  was  not  shutting  out, 
as  he  thought,  torrents  of  shame,  remorse,  and  self-condemna- 
tion. Carl  kept  silence  willingly  enough  ;  but,  even  if  the  bar 
had  been  removed,  he  would  have  had  little  to  say.  During 
the  night  his  head  had  ached,  and  he  had  had  some  fever ; 
but  it  was  more  the  effect  of  the  fiery,  rank  liquor  pressed 
upon  him  by  Schwartz  than  of  remorse.  But  now  he  had 
heard  what  really  interested  and  aroused  him.  Mark  in  love ! 
— hard-working,  steady,  dull  old  Mark,  whom  he  had  thought 
endowed  with  no  fancies  at  all,  save  perhaps  that  of  being 
thoroughly  warmed  after  his  arctic  freezing.  Old  Mark  fond 
of  Leeza — in  love  with  Leeza  ! 

Leeza  wasn't  much.     Carl  did  not  even  think  his  cousin 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  165 

pretty ;  his  fancy  was  for  something  large  and  Oriental.  But, 
pretty  or  not,  she  had  evidently  fascinated  Mark  Deal,  com- 
ing, a  poor  little  orphan  maid,  with  her  aunt,  Carl's  mother, 
to  brighten  old  Abner  Deal's  farm-house,  one  mile  from  the 
windy  Exton  pier.  Carl's  mother  could  not  hope  to  keep  her 
German  son  in  this  new  home  ;  but  she  kept  little  Leeza,  or 
Eliza,  as  the  neighbors  called  her.  And  Mark,  a  shy,  awk- 
ward boy,  had  learned  to  love  the  child,  who  had  sweet  blue 
eyes,  and  thick  braids  of  flaxen  hair  fastened  across  the  back 
of  her  head. 

"  To  care  all  that  for  Leeza ! "  thought  Carl,  laughing  si- 
lently in  his  hammock.  "  And  then  to  fancy  that  she  liked 
that  Graves !  And  then  to  leave  her,  and  come  away  off 
down  here,  just  on  the  suspicion ! " 

But  Carl  was  mistaken.  A  man,  be  he  never  so  awkward 
and  silent,  will  generally  make  at  least  one  effort  to  get  the 
woman  he  loves.  Mark  had  made  two,  and  failed.  After 
his  first,  he  had  gone  North ;  after  his  second,  he  had  come 
South,  bringing  Leeza's  cousin  with  him. 

In  the  morning  a  new  life  began  on  the  old  plantation. 
First,  Scipio  was  dismissed ;  then  the  hunter  who  had  kept 
the  open-air  larder  supplied  with  game,  an  old  man  of  un- 
known, or  rather  mixed  descent,  having  probably  Spanish, 
African,  and  Seminole  blood  in  his  veins,  was  told  that  his 
services  were  required  no  more. 

"  But  are  you  going  to  starve  us,  then  ?  "  asked  Carl,  with 
a  comical  grimace. 

"  I  am  a  good  shot,  myself,"  replied  Deal ;  "  and  a  fair 
cook,  too." 

"  But  why  do  you  do  it  ?  "  pursued  the  other.  He  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  money. 

The  elder  man  looked  at  his  brother.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  he  had  forgotten  ?  And,  if  he  had,  was  it  not  necessary, 
in  their  altered  circumstances,  that  the  truth  should  be  brought 
plainly  before  his  careless  eyes  ? 

41  I  am  obliged  to  do  it,"  he  answered,  gravely.    "  We 


166  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

must  be  very  saving,  Carl.  Things  will  be  easier,  I  hope, 
when  the  fields  begin  to  yield." 

"  Good  heavens,  you  don't  mean  to  say  1  took  all  you 
had  !  "  said  Carl,  with  an  intonation  showing  that  the  fact  that 
the  abstracted  sum  was  "  all "  was  impressing  him  more  than 
any  agency  of  his  own  in  the  matter. 

"  I  told  you  I  did  not  mind  it,"  answered  Mark,  going  off 
with  his  gun  and  game-bag. 

"  But  /  do,  by  Jove  ! "  said  Carl  to  himself,  watching  him 
disappear. 

Musicians,  in  this  world's  knowledge  and  wisdom,  are 
often  fools,  or  rather  they  remain  always  children.  The  beau- 
tiful gift,  the  divine  gift,  the  gift  which  is  the  nearest  to  heaven, 
is  accompanied  by  lacks  of  another  sort.  Carl  Brenner,  like 
a  child,  could  not  appreciate  poverty  unless  his  dinner  was 
curtailed,  his  tobacco  gone.  The  petty  changes  now  made 
in  the  small  routine  of  each  day  touched  him  acutely,  and 
roused  him  at  last  to  the  effort  of  connected,  almost  practical 
thought.  Old  Mark  was  troubled — poor.  The  cook  was  go- 
ing, the  hunter  discharged ;  the  dinners  would  be  good  no 
longer.  This  was  because  he,  Carl,  had  taken  the  money. 
There  was  no  especial  harm  in  the  act  per  se ;  but,  as  the 
sum  happened  to  be  all  old  Mark  had,  it  was  unfortunate. 
Under  the  circumstances,  what  could  he,  Carl,  do  to  help  old 
Mark? 

Mark  loved  that  light-headed  little  Leeza.  Mark  had 
brought  him  down  here  and  taken  care  of  him  on  Leeza's 
account.  Mark,  therefore,  should  have  Leeza.  He,  Carl, 
would  bring  it  about.  He  set  to  work  at  once  to  be  special 
providence  in  Mark's  affairs.  He  sat  down,  wrote  a  long  let- 
ter, sealed  it  with  a  stern  air,  and  then  laid  it  on  the  table, 
got  up,  and  surveyed  it  with  decision.  There  it  was — done ! 
Gone !  But  no ;  not  "  gone  "  yet.  And  how  could  it  go  ? 
He  was  now  confronted  by  the  difficulty  of  mailing  it  without 
Mark's  knowledge.  San  Miguel  was  the  nearest  post-office ; 
and  San  Miguel  was  miles  away.  Africanus  was  half  crip- 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  167 

pled ;  the  old  hunter  would  come  no  more ;  he  himself  could 
not  walk  half  the  distance.  Then  an  idea  came  to  him  :  Afri- 
canus,  although  dismissed,  was  not  yet  gone.  He  went  out 
to  find  him. 

Mark  came  home  at  night  with  a  few  birds.  "  They  will 
last  us  over  one  day,"  he  said,  throwing  down  the  spoil. 
"  You  still  here,  Scip  ?  I  thought  I  sent  you  off." 

"He's  going  to-morrow,"  interposed  Carl.  Scip  sat  up 
all  night  cooking. 

"  What  in  the  world  has  got  into  him  ?  "  said  Deal,  as  the 
light  from  the  old  chimney  made  their  sleeping-room  bright. 

"  He  wants  to  leave  us  well  supplied,  I  suppose,"  said 
Carl,  from  his  hammock.  "  Things  keep  better  down  here 
when  they're  cooked,  you  know."  This  was  true ;  but  it  was 
unusual  for  Carl  to  interest  himself  in  such  matters. 

The  next  morning  Deal  started  on  a  hunting  expedition, 
intending  to  be  absent  two  days.  Game  was  plenty  in  the 
high  lands  farther  west.  He  had  good  luck,  and  came  back 
at  the  end  of  the  second  day  loaded,  having  left  also  several 
caches  behind  to  be  visited  on  the  morrow.  But  there  was 
no  one  in  the  house,  or  on  the  plantation ;  both  Scip  and  Carl 
were  gone. 

A  slip  of  paper  was  pinned  to  the  red  cotton  door.  It 
contained  these  words:  "It's  all  right,  old  fellow.  If  I'm 
not  back  at  the  end  of  three  days,  counting  this  as  one,  come 
into  South  Devil  after  me.  You'll  find  a  trail." 

"  Confound  the  boy ! "  said  Deal,  in  high  vexation.  "  He's 
crazy."  He  took  a  torch,  went  to  the  causeway,  and  there 
saw  from  the  foot-prints  that  two  had  crossed.  "  Scip  went 
with  him,"  he  thought,  somewhat  comforted.  "  The  old 
black  rascal  used  to  declare  that  he  knew  every  inch  of  the 
swamp."  He  went  back,  cooked  his  supper,  and  slept.  In 
the  matter  of  provisions,  there  was  little  left  save  what  he 
kept  under  lock  and  key.  Scipio  had  started  with  a  good 
supply.  At  dawn  he  rose,  made  a  fire  under  the  old  chimney, 
cooked  some  venison,  baked  some  corn-bread,  and,  placing 


168  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

them  in  his  bag,  started  into  South  Devil,  a  bundle  of  torches 
slung  on  his  back  as  before,  his  gun  in  his  hand,  his  revolver 
and  knife  in  his  belt.  "  They  have  already  been  gone  two 
days,"  he  said  to  himself;  "they  must  be  coming  toward 
home,  now."  He  thought  Carl  was  carrying  out  his  cher- 
ished design  of  exploring  the  swamp.  There  was  a  trail — 
hatchet  marks  on  the  trees,  and  broken  boughs.  "  That's 
old  Scip.  Carl  would  never  have  been  so  systematic,"  he 
thought. 

He  went  on  until  noon,  and  then  suddenly  found  himself 
on  the  bank  of  a  sluggish  stream.  "  The  Branch,"  he  said — 
"  South  Devil  Branch.  It  joins  West  Devil,  and  the  two 
make  the  San  Juan  Bautista  (a  queer  origin  for  a  saint!) 
three  miles  below  Miguel.  But  where  does  the  trail  go 
now  ?  "  It  went  nowhere.  He  searched  and  searched,  and 
could  not  find  it.  It  ended  at  the  Branch.  Standing  there 
in  perplexity,  he  happened '  to  raise  his  eyes.  Small  attention 
had  he  hitherto  paid  to  the  tangled  vines  and  blossoms  swing- 
ing above  him.  He  hated  the  beauty  of  South  Devil.  But 
now  he  saw  a  slip  of  paper  hanging  from  a  vine,  and,  seizing 
it,  he  read  as  follows :  "  We  take  boat  here ;  wait  for  me  if 
not  returned." 

Mark  stood,  the  paper  in  his  hand,  thinking.  There  was 
only  one  boat  in  the  neighborhood,  a  canoe  belonging  to  the 
mongrel  old  hunter,  who  occasionally  went  into  the  swamp. 
Carl  must  have  obtained  this  in  some  way;  probably  the 
mongrel  had  brought  it  in  by  the  Branch,  or  one  of  its  tribu- 
taries, and  this  was  the  rendezvous.  One  comfort — the  old 
hunter  must  then  be  of  the  party,  too.  But  why  should  he, 
Mark,  wait,  if  Carl  had  two  persons  with  him  ?  Still,  the  boy 
had  asked.  It  ended  in  his  waiting. 

He  began  to  prepare  for  the  night.  There  was  a  knoll 
near  by,  and  here  he  made  a  camp-fire,  spending  the  time 
before  sunset  in  gathering  the  wood  by  the  slow  process  of 
climbing  the  trees  and  vines,  and  breaking  off  dead  twigs  and 
branches ;  everything  near  the  ground  was  wet  and  sogged. 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  169 

He  planted  his  four  torches,  ate  his  supper,  examined  his  gun 
and  revolver,  and  then,  as  darkness  fell,  having  nothing  else 
to  do,  he  made  a  plot  on  the  ground  with  twigs  and  long 
splinters  of  light-wood,  and  played,  one  hand  against  the  oth- 
er, a  swamp  game  of  fox-and-geese.  He  played  standing 
(his  fox-and-geese  were  two  feet  high),  so  that  he  could  keep 
a  lookout  for  every  sort  of  creature.  There  were  wild-cats 
and  bears  in  the  interior  of  South  Devil,  and  in  the  Branch, 
alligators.  He  did  not  fear  the  large  creatures,  however ;  his 
especial  guard,  as  before,  was  against  the  silent  snakes.  He 
lighted  the  fire  and  torches  early,  so  that  whatever  uncanny 
inhabitants  there  might  be  in  the  near  trees  could  have  an 
opportunity  of  coming  down  and  seeking  night-quarters  else- 
where. He  played  game  after  game  of  fox-and-geese ;  and 
this  time  he  sang  "  Sweet  Afton."  He  felt  that  he  had  ex- 
hausted the  "  Troubadour "  on  the  previous  occasion.  He 
shot  five  snakes,  and  saw  (or  rather  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
saw)  five  thousand  others  coiling  and  gliding  over  the  roots 
of  the  cypresses  all  around.  He  made  a  rule  not  to  look  at 
them  if  he  could  help  it,  as  long  as  they  did  not  approach. 
"  Otherwise,"  he  thought,  "  I  shall  lose  my  senses,  and  think 
the  very  trees  are  squirming." 

It  was  a  long,  long  night.  The  knoll  was  dented  all  over 
with  holes  made  by  the  long  splinters  representing  his  fox- 
and-geese.  Dizziness  was  creeping  over  him  at  intervals. 
His  voice,  singing  "Sweet  Afton,"  had  become  hoarse  and 
broken,  and  his  steps  uneven,  as  he  moved  to  and  fro,  still 
playing  the  game  dully,  when  at  last  dawn  came.  But,  al- 
though the  flat  tops  of  the  great  cypresses  far  above  were 
bathed  in  the  golden  sunshine,  it  was  long  before  the  radi- 
ance penetrated  to  the  dark  glades  below.  The  dank,  watery 
aisles  were  still  in  gray  shadow,  when  the  watcher  heard  a 
sound — a  real  sound  now,  not  an  imaginary  one — and  at  the 
same  moment  his  glazed  eyes  saw  a  boat  coming  up  the 
Branch.  It  was  a  white  canoe,  and  paddled  by  a  wraith ;  at 
least,  the  creature  who  sat  within  looked  so  grayly  pale,  and 


i;o  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

its  eyes  in  its  still,  white  face  so  large  and  unearthly,  that  it 
seemed  like  a  shade  returned  from  the  halls  of  death. 

"  Why,  Carl !  "  said  Mark,  in  a  loud,  unsteady  voice,  break- 
ing through  his  own  lethargy  by  main  force.  "  It's  you,  Carl, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

He  tramped  dow"n  to  the  water's  edge,  each  step  seeming 
to  him  a  rod  long,  and  now  a  valley,  and  now  a  hill.  The 
canoe  touched  the  bank,  and  Carl  fell  forward  ;  not  with  vio- 
lence, but  softly,  and  without  strength.  What  little  conscious- 
ness he  had  kept  was  now  gone. 

Dawn  was  coming  down  from  above ;  the  air  was  slightly 
stirred.  The  elder  man's  head  grew  more  steady,  as  he  lifted 
his  step-brother,  gave  him  brandy,  rubbed  his  temples  and 
chest,  and  then,  as  he  came  slowly  back  to  life  again,  stood 
thinking  what  he  should  do.  They  were  a  half-day's  journey 
from  home,  and  Carl  could  not  walk.  If  he  attempted  to 
carry  him,  he  was  fearful  that  they  should  not  reach  pure  air 
outside  before  darkness  fell  again,  and  a  second  night  in  the 
thick  air  might  be  death  for  both  of  them  ;  but  there  was  the 
boat.  It  had  come  into  South  Devil  in  some  way ;  by  that 
way  it  should  go  out  again.  He  laid  Carl  in  one  end,  putting 
his  own  coat  under  his  head  for  a  pillow,  and  then  stepped 
in  himself,  took  the  paddle,  and  moved  off.  Of  course  he 
must  ascend  the  Branch ;  as  long  as  there  were  no  tributa- 
ries, he  could  not  err.  But  presently  he  came  to  an  everglade 
— a  broadening  of  the  stream  with  apparently  twenty  different 
outlets,  all  equally  dark  and  tangled.  He  paddled  around  the 
border,  looking  first  at  one,  then  at  another.  The  matted 
water-vines  caught  at  his  boat  like  hundreds  of  hands ;  the 
great  lily-leaves  slowly  sank  and  let  the  light  bow  glide  over 
them.  Carl  slept ;  there  was  no  use  trying  to  rouse  him ;  but 
probably  he  would  remember  nothing,  even  if  awake.  The 
elder  brother  took  out  his  compass,  and  had  decided  by  it 
which  outlet  to  take,  when  his  eye  rested  upon  the  skin  of  a 
moccasin  nailed  to  a  cypress  on  the  other  side  of  the  pond. 
It  was  the  mongrel's  way  of  making  a  guide-post.  Without 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  171 

hesitation,  although  the  direction  was  the  exact  opposite  of 
the  one  he  had  selected,  Deal  pushed  the  canoe  across  and 
entered  the  stream  thus  indicated.  At  the  next  pool  he  found 
another  snake-skin  ;  and  so  on  out  of  the  swamp.  Twenty- 
five  snakes  had  died  in  the  cause.  He  came  to  firm  land  at 
noon,  two  miles  from  the  plantation.  Carl  was  awake  now, 
but  weak  and  wandering.  Deal  lifted  him  on  shore,  built  a 
fire,  heated  some  meat,  toasted  corn-bread,  and  made  him 
eat.  Then,  leaning  upon  his  brother's  arm,  walking  slowly, 
and  often  pausing  to  rest,  the  blue-eyed  ghost  reached  home 
at  sunset — two  miles  in  five  hours. 

Ten  days  now  passed ;  the  mind  of  the  young  violin  player 
did  not  regain  its  poise.  He  rose  and  dressed  himself  each 
morning,  and  slept  in  the  sunshine  as  before.  He  went  to  the 
place  of  tombs,  carrying  his  violin,  but  forgot  to  play.  Instead, 
he  sat  looking  dreamily  at  the  swamp.  He  said  little,  and  that 
little  was  disconnected.  The  only  sentence  which  seemed  to 
have  meaning,  and  to  be  spoken  earnestly,  was,  "  It's  all  right, 
old  fellow.  Just  you  wait  fifteen  days — fifteen  days  !  "  But, 
when  Mark  questioned  him,  he  could  get  no  definite  reply, 
only  a  repetition  of  the  exhortation  to  "  wait  fifteen  days." 

Deal  went  over  to  one  of  the  mongrel's  haunts,  and,  by 
good  luck,  found  him  at  home.  The  mongrel  had  a  number 
of  camps,  which  he  occupied  according  to  convenience.  The 
old  man  acknowledged  that  he  had  lent  his  canoe,  and  that 
he  had  accompanied  Carl  and  Scip  part  of  the  way  through 
South  Devil.  But  only  part  of  the  way ;  then  he  left  them, 
and  struck  across  to  the  west.  Where  were  they  going? 
Why,  straight  to  San  Miguel ;  the  Branch  brought  them  to 
the  King's  Road  crossing,  and  the  rest  of  the  way  they  went 
on  foot.  What  were  they  going  to  do  in  San  Miguel  ?  The 
mongrel  had  no  idea ;  he  had  not  many  ideas.  Scip  was  to 
stay  up  there ;  Brenner  was  to  return  alone  in  the  canoe,  they 
having  made  a  trail  all  the  way. 

Deal  returned  to  the  plantation.  He  still  thought  that 
Carl's  idea  had  been  merely  to  explore  the  swamp. 


172  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

Twelve  days  had  passed,  and  had  grown  to  fourteen ; 
Carl  was  no  stronger.  He  was  very  gentle  now,  like  a  sick 
child.  Deal  was  seized  with  a  fear  that  this  soft  quiet  was 
the  peace  that  often  comes  before  the  last  to  the  poor  racked 
frame  of  the  consumptive.  He  gave  up  all  but  the  necessary 
work,  and  stayed  with  Carl  all  day.  The  blue-eyed  ghost 
smiled,  but  said  little ;  into  its  clouded  mind  penetrated  but 
one  ray  —  "Wait  fifteen  days."  Mark  had  decided  that 
the  sentence  meant  nothing  but  some  wandering  fancy. 
Spring  in  all  her  superb  luxuriance  was  now  wreathing  Flori- 
da with  flowers  ;  the  spring  flowers  met  the  old  flowers,  the 
spring  leaves  met  the  old  leaves.  The  yellow  jessamine 
climbed  over  miles  of  thicket ;  the  myriad  purple  balls  of  the 
sensitive-plant  starred  the  ground  ;  the  atamasco  lilies  grew 
whitely,  each  one  shining  all  alone,  in  the  wet  woods ;  choco- 
late-hued  orchids  nodded,  and  the  rose-colored  ones  rang 
their  bells,  at  the  edge  of  the  barren.  The  old  causeway 
across  the  sugar  waste  was  blue  with  violets,  and  Mark  car- 
ried Carl  thither ;  he  would  lie  there  contentedly  in  the  sun- 
shine for  hours,  his  pale  fingers  toying  with  the  blue  blos- 
soms, his  eyes  lifted  to  the  green  line  of  South  Devil  across 
the  sapphire  sky. 

One  afternoon  he  fell  asleep  there,  and  Mark  left  him,  to 
cook  their  dinner.  When  he  came  back,  his  step-brother's 
eyes  had  reason  in  them  once  more,  or  rather  remembrance. 

"  Old  fellow,"  he  said,  as  Mark,  surprised  and  somewhat 
alarmed  at  the  change,  sat  down  beside  him,  "you  got  me  out 
of  the  swamp,  I  suppose  ?  I  don't  remember  getting  myself 
out.  Now  I  want  to  ask  something.  I'm  going  to  leave  this 
world  in  a  few  days,  and  try  it  in  another ;  better  luck  next 
time,  you  know.  What  I  want  to  ask  is  that  you'll  take  me 
up  and  bury  me  at  San  Miguel  in  a  little  old  burying-ground 
they  have  there,  on  a  knoll  overlooking  the  ocean.  I  don't 
want  to  lie  here  with  the  Dons  and  the  Aztecs ;  and,  besides, 
I  particularly  want  to  be  carried  through  the  swamp.  Take 
me  through  in  the  canoe,  as  I  went  the  last  time ;  it's  the 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  173 

easiest  way,  and  there's  a  trail.  And  I  want  to  go.  And  do 
not  cover  my  face,  either  ;  I  want  to  see.  Promise." 

Mark  promised,  and  Carl  closed  his  eyes.  Then  he  roused 
himself  again. 

"  Inquire  at  the  post-office  in  San  Miguel  for  a  letter,"  he 
said  drowsily.  "  Promise."  Again  Mark  promised.  He 
seemed  to  sleep  for  some  minutes  ;  then  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  heard  that  music,  you  know — heard  it  all  out  plainly 
and  clearly,"  he  said,  looking  quietly  at  his  brother.  "I 
know  the  whole,  and  have  sung  it  over  to  myself  a  thousand 
times  since.  I  can  not  write  it  down  now.  But  it  will  not  be 
lost." 

"  Music  is  never  lost,  I  suppose,"  answered  Mark,  some- 
what at  random. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Carl,  with  decision.  "  My  song  will 
be  heard  some  time.  I'm  sure  of  that.  And  it  will  be  much 
admired." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  You  try  to  be  kind  always,  don't  you,  old  fellow,  whether 
you  comprehend  or  not  ?  "  said  the  boy,  with  his  old  superior 
smile— the  smile  of  the  artist,  who,  although  he  be  a  failure 
and  a  pauper,  yet  always  pities  the  wise.  Then  he  slept 
again.  At  dawn,  peacefully  and  with  a  smile,  he  died. 

It  should  not  have  been  expected,  perhaps,  that  he  could 
live.  But  in  some  way  Mark  had  expected  it. 

A  few  hours  later  a  canoe  was  floating  down  the  Branch 
through  South  Devil.  One  man  was  paddling  at  the  stern  ; 
another  was  stretched  on  a  couch,  with  his  head  on  a  pillow 
placed  at  the  bow,  where  he  could  see  the  blossoming  net- 
work above  through  his  closed  eyes.  As  Carl  had  said,  Scipio 
had  left  a  trail  all  the  way — a  broken  branch,  a  bent  reed,  or 
a  shred  of  cloth  tied  to  the  lily-leaves.  All  through  the  still 
day  they  glided  on,  the  canoe  moving  without  a  sound  on  the 
bosom  of  the  dark  stream.  They  passed  under  the  gray  and 
solemn  cypresses,  rising  without  branches  to  an  enormous 
height,  their  far  foliage  hidden  by  the  moss,  which  hung 


174 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL 


down  thickly  in  long  flakes,  diffusing  the  sunshine  and  making 
it  silvery  like  mist ;  in  the  silver  swung  the  air-plants,  great 
cream-colored  disks,  and  wands  of  scarlet,  crowded  with  little 
buds,  blossoms  that  looked  like  butterflies,  and  blossoms  that 
looked  like  humming-birds,  and  little  dragon-heads  with  grin- 
ning faces.  Then  they  came  to  the  region  of  the  palms ; 
these  shot  up,  slender  and  graceful,  and  leaned  over  the 
stream,  the  great  aureum-ferns  growing  on  their  trunks  high 
in  the  air.  Beneath  was  a  firmer  soil  than  in  the  domain  of 
the  cypresses,  and  here  grew  a  mat  of  little  flowers,  each  less 
than  a  quarter  of  an  inch  wide,  close  together,  pink,  blue, 
scarlet,  yellow,  purple,  but  never  wrhite,  producing  a  hue  sin- 
gularly rich,  owing  to  the  absence  of  that  colorless  color 
which  man  ever  mingles  with  his  floral  combinations,  and 
strangely  makes  sacred  alike  to  the  bridal  and  to  death. 
Great  vines  ran  up  the  palms,  knotted  themselves,  and  came 
down  again,  hand  over  hand,  wreathed  in  little  fresh  leaves  of 
exquisite  green.  Birds  with  plumage  of  blush-rose  pink  flew 
slowly  by ;  also  some  with  scarlet  wings,  and  the  jeweled 
paroquets.  The  great  Savannah  cranes  stood  on  the  shore, 
and  did  not  stir  as  the  boat  moved  by.  And,  as  the  spring 
was  now  in  its  prime,  the  alligators  showed  their  horny  heads 
above  water,  and  climbed  awkwardly  out  on  the  bank;  or 
else,  swimming  by  the  side  of  the  canoe,  accompanied  it  long 
distances,  no  doubt  moved  by  dull  curiosity  concerning  its 
means  of  locomotion,  and  its  ideas  as  to  choice  morsels  of 
food.  The  air  was  absolutely  still ;  no  breeze  reached  these 
blossoming  aisles ;  each  leaf  hung  motionless.  The  atmos- 
phere was  hot,  and  heavy  with  perfumes.  It  was  the  heart  of 
the  swamp,  a  riot  of  intoxicating,  steaming,  swarming,  fra- 
grant, beautiful,  tropical  life,  without  man  to  make  or  mar  it. 
All  the  world  was  once  so,  before  man  was  made. 

Did  Deal  appreciate  this  beauty  ?  He  looked  at  it,  be- 
cause he  could  not  get  over  the  feeling  that  Carl  was  looking 
at  it  too ;  but  he  did  not  admire  it.  The  old  New  England 
spirit  was  rising  within  him  again  at  last,  after  the  crushing 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL.  175 

palsy  of  the  polar  ice,  and  the  icy  looks  of  a  certain  blue-eyed 
woman. 

He  came  out  of  the  swamp  an  hour  before  sunset,  and, 
landing,  lifted  his  brother  in  his  arms,  and  started  northward 
toward  San  Miguel.  The  little  city  was  near ;  but  the  weight 
of  a  dead  body  grown  cold  is  strange  and  mighty,  and  it  was 
late  evening  before  he  entered  the  gate,  carrying  his  motion- 
less burden.  He  crossed  the  little  plaza,  and  went  into  the 
ancient  cathedral,  laying  it  down  on  the  chancel-step  before 
the  high  altar.  It  was  the  only  place  he  could  think  of ;  and 
he  was  not  repelled.  A  hanging  lamp  of  silver  burned  dimly ; 
in  a  few  moments  kind  hands  came  to  help  him.  And  thus 
Carl,  who  never  went  to  church  in  life,  went  there  in  death, 
and,  with  tapers  burning  at  his  head  and  feet,  rested  all  night 
under  the  picture  of  the  Madonna,  with  nuns  keeping  watch 
and  murmuring  their  gentle  prayers  beside  him. 

The  next  morning  he  was  buried  in  the  dry  little  burial- 
ground  on  the  knoll  overlooking  the  blue  Southern  ocean. 

When  all  was  over,  Deal,  feeling  strangely  lonely,  remem- 
bered his  promise,  and  turned  toward  the  post-office.  He  ex- 
pected nothing ;  it  was  only  one  of  the  poor  lad's  fancies ; 
still,  he  would  keep  his  word.  There  was  nothing  for  him. 

He  went  out.  Then  an  impulse  made  him  turn  back  and 
ask  if  there  was  a  letter  for  Carl.  "  For  Carl  Brenner,"  he 
said,  and  thought  how  strange  it  was  that  there  was  now  no 
Carl.  There  was  a  letter ;  he  put  it  into  his  pocket  and  left 
the  town,  going  homeward  by  the  King's  Road  on  foot ;  the 
South  Devil  should  see  him  no  more.  He  slept  part  of  the 
night  by  the  roadside,  and  reached  home  the  next  morning ; 
everything  was  as  he  had  left  it.  He  made  a  fire  and  boiled 
some  coffee ;  then  he  set  the  little  house  in  order,  loaded  his 
gun,  and  went  out  mechanically  after  game.  The  routine  of 
daily  life  had  begun  again. 

"  It's  a  pleasant  old  place,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  went 
through  one  of  the  orange-aisles  and  saw  the  wild  oranges 
dotting  the  ground  with  their  golden  color.  "  It's  a  pleasant 


176  THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 

old  place,"  he  repeated,  as  he  went  out  into  the  hot,  still  sun- 
shine beyond.  He  filled  his  game-bag,  and  sat  down  to  rest 
a  while  before  returning.  Then  for  the  first  time  he  remem- 
bered the  letter,  and  drew  it  forth.  This  was  the  letter  Carl 
meant ;  Carl  asked  him  to  get  it  after  he  was  dead  ;  he  must 
have  intended,  then,  that  he,  Mark,  should  read  it.  He 
opened  it,  and  looked  at  the  small,  slanting  handwriting  with- 
out recognizing  it.  Then  from  the  inside  a  photograph  fell 
out,  and  he  took  it  up ;  it  was  Leeza.  On  the  margin  was 
written,  "  For  Mark." 

She  had  written ;  but,  womanlike,  not,  as  Carl  expected, 
to  Mark.  Instead,  she  had  written  to  Carl,  and  commissioned 
htm  to  tell  Mark — what  ?  Oh,  a  long  story,  such  as  girls  tell, 
but  with  the  point  that,  after  all,  she  "  liked  "  (liked  ?)  Mark 
best.  Carl's  letter  had  been  blunt,  worded  with  unflattering 
frankness.  Leeza  was  tired  of  her  own  coquetries,  lonely,  and 
poor ;  she  wrote  her  foolish  little  apologizing,  confessing  letter 
with  tears  in  her  blue  eyes — those  blue  eyes  that  sober,  reti- 
cent Mark  Deal  could  not  forget. 

Carl  had  gone  to  San  Miguel,  then,  to  mail  a  letter — a 
letter  which  had  brought  this  answer !  Mark,  with  his  face 
in  his  hands,  thanked  God  that  he  had  not  spoken  one  harsh 
word  to  the  boy  for  what  had  seemed  obstinate  disobedience, 
but  had  tended  him  gently  to  the  last. 

Then  he  rose,  stretched  his  arms,  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
looked  around.  Everything  seemed  altered.  The  sky  was 
brassy,  the  air  an  oven.  He  remembered  the  uplands  where 
the  oats  grew,  near  Exton ;  and  his  white  sand-furrows 
seemed  a  ghastly  mockery  of  fields.  He  went  homeward  and 
drew  water  from  his  well  to  quench  his  burning  thirst ;  it  was 
tepid,  and  he  threw  it  away,  recalling  as  he  did  so  the  spring 
under  the  cool,  brown  rocks  where  he  drank  when  a  boy.  A 
sudden  repugnance  came  over  him  when  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
wild  oranges  lying  on  the  ground,  over-ripe  with  rich,  pulpy 
decay ;  he  spurned  them  aside  with  his  foot,  and  thought  of 
the  firm  apples  in  the  old  orchard,  a  fruit  cool  and  reticent,  a 


THE  SOUTH  DEVIL. 


177 


little  hard,  too,  not  giving  itself  to  the  first  comer.  Then  there 
came  over  him  the  hue  of  Northern  forests  in  spring,  the  late, 
reluctant  spring  of  Exton  ;  and  the  changeless  olive-green  of 
the  pine  barrens  grew  hideous  in  his  eyes.  But,  most  of  all, 
there  seized  him  a  horror  of  the  swamp — a  horror  of  its  hot 
steaming  air,  and  its  intoxicating  perfume,  which  reached  him 
faintly  even  where  he  stood ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  if  he  staid 
long  within  their  reach  his  brain  would  be  affected  as  Carl's 
had  been,  and  that  he  should  wander  within  and  die.  For 
there  would  be  no  one  to  rescue  htm. 

So  strong  was  this  new  feeling,  like  a  giant  full  armed, 
that  he  started  that  very  night,  carrying  his  gun  and  Carl's 
violin,  and  a  knapsack  of  clothes  on  his  back,  and  leaving  his 
other  possessions  behind.  Their  value  was  not  great,  but 
they  made  a  princely  home  for  the  mongrel,  who  came  over 
after  he  had  departed,  looked  around  stealthily,  stole  several 
small  articles,  and  hastened  away ;  came  back  again  after  a 
day  or  two,  and  stole  a  little  more ;  and  finally,  finding  the 
place  deserted,  brought  back  all  his  spoil  and  established 
himself  there  permanently,  knowing  full  well  that  it  would  be 
long  before  Monteano's  would  find  another  tenant  from  the 
North. 

As  Mark  Deal  passed  across  the  King's  Road  Bridge  over 
the  Branch  (now  soon  to  be  sainted),  he  paused,  and  looked 
down  into  the  north  border  of  South  Devil.  Then  he  laid 
aside  his  gun  and  the  violin,  went  off  that  way,  and  gathered 
a  large  bunch  of  swamp  blossoms.  Coming  into  San  Miguel, 
he  passed  through  the  town  and  out  to  the  little  burial-ground 
beyond.  Here  he  found  the  new-made  grave,  and  laid  the 
flowers  upon  it. 

"  He  will  like  them  because  they  come  from  there"  was 
his  thought. 

Then,  with  a  buoyant  step,  he  started  up  the  long,  low, 
white  peninsula,  set  with  its  olive-woods  in  a  sapphire  sea ; 
and  his  face  was  turned  northward. 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 


The  loveliest  land  that  smiles  beneath  the  sky, 

The  coast-land  of  our  western  Italy. 

I  view  the  waters  quivering  ;  quaff  the  breeze, 

Whose  briny  raciness  keeps  an  under  taste 

Of  flavorous  tropic  sweets,  perchance  swept  home 

From  Cuba's  perfumed  groves  and  garden  spiceries. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 

Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength,  and  all  thy  skill, 

Carolina ! 

Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied  ; 
How  Rutledge  ruled  and  Laurens  died, 

Carolina  ! 

HENRY  TIMROD. 


Do  you  know  the  cotton  country — the  country  of  broad 
levels  open  to  the  sun,  where  the  ungainly,  ragged  bushes 
stand  in  long  rows,  bearing  the  clothing  of  a  nation  on  their 
backs  ?  Not  on  their  backs  either,  for  the  white  wool  is  scat- 
tered over  the  branches  and  twigs,  looking,  not  as  if  it  grew 
there,  but  as  if  it  had  been  blown  that  way,  and  had  caught 
and  clung  at  random.  When  I  first  came  to  the  cotton  coun- 
try, I  used  to  stand  with  my  chin  on  the  top-rail  of  the  fences, 
trying  to  rid  my  eyes  of  that  first  impression.  I  saw  the  fields 
only  when  the  cotton  was  white,  when  there  were  no  green 
leaves  left,  and  the  fleecy  down  did  not  seem  to  me  a  vege- 
table at  all.  Starved  cows  passed  through  the  half-plucked 
rows  untempted,  and  I  said  to  myself :  "  Of  course.  Cows 
do  not  eat  cotton  any  more  than  they  eat  wool ;  but  what 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  179 

bush  is  there  at  the  North  that  they  would  not  nibble  if  starv- 
ing ?  "  Accustomed  to  the  trim,  soldierly  ranks  of  the  West- 
ern corn-fields,  or  the  billowy  grace  of  the  wheat,  I  could 
think  of  nothing  save  a  parade  of  sturdy  beggarmen  unwill- 
ingly drawn  up  in  line,  when  I  gazed  upon  the  stubborn,  un- 
even branches,  and  generally  lop-sided  appearance  of  these 
plants — plants,  nevertheless,  of  wealth,  usefulness,  and  his- 
toric importance  in  the  annals  of  our  land.  But  after  a  while 
I  grew  accustomed  to  their  contrary  ways,  and  I  even  began 
to  like  their  defiant  wildness,  as  a  contrast,  perhaps,  to  the 
languorous  sky  above,  the  true  sky  of  the  cotton  country,  with 
its  soft  heat,  its  hazy  air,  and  its  divine  twilight  that  lingers  so 
long.  I  always  walked  abroad  at  sunset,  and  it  is  in  the  sun- 
set-light that  I  always  see  the  fields  now  when  far  away.  No 
doubt  there  was  plenty  of  busy,  prosaic  reality  down  there  in 
the  mornings,  but  I  never  saw  it ;  I  only  saw  the  beauty  and 
the  fancies  that  come  with  the  soft  after-glow  and  the  shadows 
of  the  night. 

Down  in  the  cotton  country  the  sun  shines  steadily  all  day 
long,  and  the  earth  is  hot  under  your  feet.  There  are  few 
birds,  but  at  nightfall  the  crows  begin  to  fly  home  in  a  long 
line,  going  down  into  the  red  west  as  though  they  had  im- 
portant messages  to  deliver  to  some  imprisoned  princess  on 
the  edge  of  the  horizon.  One  day  I  followed  the  crows.  I 
said  to  myself :  "  The  princess  is  a  ntse ;  they  probably  light 
not  far  from  here,  and  I  am  going  to  find  their  place.  The 
crows  at  home — that  would  be  something  worth  seeing." 
Turning  from  the  path,  I  went  westward.  "  What ! "  said  a 
country-woman,  meeting  Wordsworth  on  the  road,  "  are  ye 
stepping  westward,  sir?  "  I,  too,  stepped  westward. 

Field  after  field  I  crossed  ;  at  last  the  fences  ceased,  and 
only  old  half-filled  ditches  marked  the  boundary-lines.  The 
land  sloped  downward  slightly,  and  after  a  while  the  ridge 
behind  me  seemed  like  a  line  of  heights,  the  old  cotton-plants 
on  its  top  standing  out  as  distinctly  as  single  pine-trees  on  a 
mountain-summit  outlined  against  the  sky ;  so  comparative  is 


i8o  IN   THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 

height.  The  crows  still  flew  westward  as  I  came  out  upon  a 
second  level  lower  down  than  the  first,  and  caught  a  golden 
gleam  through  the  fringe  of  bushes  in  the  middle  of  the  plain. 
I  had  unwittingly  found  the  river  at  last,  that  broad,  brown 
river  that  I  knew  was  down  there  somewhere,  although  I  had 
not  seen  it  with  my  bodily  eyes.  I  had  full  knowledge  of 
what  it  was,  though,  farther  south  toward  the  ocean ;  I  knew 
the  long  trestles  over  the  swamps  and  dark  canebrakes  that 
stretched  out  for  miles  on  each  side  of  the  actual  stream — 
trestles  over  which  the  trains  passed  cautiously  every  day,  the 
Northern  passengers  looking  nervously  down  at  the  quaking, 
spongy  surface  below,  and  prophesying  accidents  as  certain 
some  time — when  they  were  not  on  board.  Up  here  in  the 
cotton  country,  however,  the  river  was  more  docile;  there 
were  no  tides  to  come  up  and  destroy  the  banks,  and  with  the 
exception  of  freshets  the  habits  of  the  stream  were  orderly. 
The  levels  on  each  side  might  have  been,  should  have  been, 
rich  with  plenty.  Instead,  they  were  uncultivated  and  deso- 
late. Here  and  there  a  wild,  outlawed  cotton-bush  reared  its 
head,  and  I  could  trace  the  old  line  of  the  cart-road  and  cross- 
tracks  ;  but  the  soil  was  spongy  and  disintegrated,  and  for  a 
long  time  evidently  no  care  had  been  bestowed  upon  it.  I 
crossed  over  to  the  river,  and  found  that  the  earth-bank  which 
had  protected  the  field  was  broken  down  and  washed  away  in 
many  places ;  the  low  trees  and  bushes  on  shore  still  held  the 
straws  and  driftwood  that  showed  the  last  freshet's  high- 
water  mark. 

The  river  made  an  irregular  bend  a  short  distance  below, 
and  I  strolled  that  way,  walking  now  on  the  thick  masses  of 
lespedeza  that  carpeted  the  old  road-track,  and  now  on  the 
singularly  porous  soil  of  the  level,  a  soil  which  even  my  inex- 
perienced eyes  recognized  as  worthless,  all  its  good  particles 
having  been  drained  out  of  it  and  borne  away  on  the  trium- 
phant tide  of  the  freshets.  The  crows  still  evaded  me,  cross- 
ing the  river  in  a  straight  line  and  flying  on  toward  the  west, 
and,  in  that  arbitrary  way  in  which  solitary  pedestrians  make 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  181 

compacts  with  themselves,  I  said,  "  I  will  go  to  that  tree  at 
the  exact  turn  of  the  bend,  and  not  one  step  farther."  I 
went  to  that  tree  at  the  exact  turn  of  the  bend,  and  then  I 
went — farther ;  for  I  found  there  one  solemn,  lonely  old  house. 
Now,  if  there  had  been  two,  I  should  not  have  gone  on ;  I 
should  not  have  broken  my  compact.  Two  houses  are  so- 
ciable and  commonplace ;  but  one  all  alone  on  a  desolate 
waste  like  that  inspired  me  with — let  us  call  it  interest,  and  I 
went  forward. 

It  was  a  lodge  rather  than  a  house ;  in  its  best  day  it  coula 
never  have  been  more  than  a  very  plain  abode,  and  now,  in  its 
worst,  it  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Giant  De- 
spair. "  Forlorn  "  was  written  over  its  lintels,  and  "  without 
hope  "  along  its  low  roof-edge.  Raised  high  above  the 
ground,  in  the  Southern  fashion,  on  wooden  supports,  it 
seemed  even  more  unstable  than  usual  to  Northern  eyes,  be- 
cause the  lattice-work,  the  valance,  as  it  were,  which  generally 
conceals  the  bare,  stilt-like  underpinning,  was  gone,  and  a 
thin  calf  and  some  melancholy  chickens  were  walking  about 
underneath,  as  though  the  place  was  an  arbor.  There  was  a 
little  patch  of  garden,  but  no  grass,  no  flowers ;  everything 
was  gray,  the  unpainted  house,  the  sand  of  the  garden-beds, 
and  the  barren  waste  stretching  away  on  all  sides.  At  first  I 
thought  the  place  was  uninhabited,  but  as  I  drew  nearer  a 
thin  smoke  from  one  of  the  chimneys  told  of  life  within,  and 
I  said  to  myself  that  the  life  would  be  black-skinned  life,  of 
course.  For  I  was  quite  accustomed  now  to  finding  the  fami- 
lies of  the  freedmen  crowded  into  just  such  old  houses  as 
this,  hidden  away  in  unexpected  places ;  for  the  freedmen 
hardly  ever  live  up  on  the  even  ground  in  the  broad  sunshine 
as  though  they  had  a  right  there,  but  down  in  the  hollows  or 
out  into  the  fringes  of  wood,  where  their  low-roofed  cabins, 
numerous  though  they  may  be,  are  scarcely  visible  to  the 
passer-by.  There  was  no  fence  around  this  house ;  it  stood 
at  large  on  the  waste  as  though  it  belonged  there.  Take 
away  the  fence  from  a  house,  and  you  take  away  its  respecta- 


182  IN   THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 

bility ;  it  becomes  at  once  an  outlaw.  I  ascended  the  crazy, 
sunken  steps  that  led  to  the  front  door,  and  lifted  the  knocker 
that  hung  there  as  if  in  mockery;  who  ever  knocked  there 
now  save  perhaps  a  river-god  with  his  wet  fingers  as  he  hur- 
ried by,  mounted  on  the  foaming  freshet,  to  ravage  and  lay 
waste  again  the  poor,  desolate  fields  ?  But  no  spirit  came  to 
the  door,  neither  came  the  swarm  of  funny  little  black  faces  I 
had  expected ;  instead,  I  saw  before  me  a  white  woman,  tall, 
thin,  and  gray-haired.  Silently  she  stood  there,  her  great, 
dark  eyes,  still  and  sad,  looking  at  me  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  By  what  right  are  you  here  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me,  madam,"  was  my  involuntary  beginning ; 
then  I  somewhat  stupidly  asked  for  a  glass  of  water. 

"  I  would  not  advise  you  to  drink  the  water  we  have  here  ; 
it  is  not  good,"  replied  the  woman.  I  knew  it  was  not ;  the 
water  is  never  good  down  on  the  levels.  But  I  was  very  stu- 
pid that  day. 

"  I  should  like  to  rest  a  while,"  was  my  next  attempt.  It 
brought  out  a  wooden  chair,  but  no  cordiality.  I  tried  every- 
thing I  could  think  of  in  the  way  of  subjects  for  conversation, 
but  elicited  no  replies  beyond  monosyllables.  I  could  not 
very  well  say,  "  Who  are  you,  and  how  came  you  here  ?  "  and 
yet  that  was  exactly  what  I  wanted  to  know.  The  woman's 
face  baffled  me,  and  I  do  not  like  to  be  baffled.  It  was  a  face 
that  was  old  and  at  the  same  time  young ;  it  had  deep  lines, 
it  was  colorless,  and  the  heavy  hair  was  gray ;  and  still  I  felt 
that  it  was  not  old  in  years,  but  that  it  was  like  the  peaches 
we  find  sometimes  on  the  ground,  old,  wrinkled,  and  withered, 
yet  showing  here  and  there  traces  of  that  evanescent  bloom 
which  comes  before  the  ripeness.  The  eyes  haunted  me; 
they  haunt  me  now,  the  dry,  still  eyes  of  immovable,  hopeless 
grief.  I  thought,  "  Oh,  if  I  could  only  help  her ! "  but  all  I 
said  was,  "  I  fear  I  am  keeping  you  standing  "  ;  for  that  is  the 
senseless  way  we  human  creatures  talk  to  each  other. 

Her  answer  was  not  encouraging. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  in  her  brief  way,  and  said  no  more. 


IN   THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  183 

I  felt  myself  obliged  to  go. 

But  the  next  afternoon  I  wandered  that  way  again,  and 
the  next,  and  the  next.  I  used  to  wait  impatiently  for  the 
hour  when  I  could  enter  into  the  presence  of  her  great  silence. 
How  still  she  was  !  If  she  had  wept,  if  she  had  raved,  if  she 
had  worked  with  nervous  energy,  or  been  resolutely,  doggedly 
idle,  if  she  had  seemed  reckless,  or  callous,  or  even  pious ; 
but  no,  she  was  none  of  these.  Her  old-young  face  was  ever 
the  same,  and  she  went  about  her  few  household  tasks  in  a 
steady,  nerveless  manner,  as  though  she  could  go  on  doing 
them  for  countless  ages,  and  yet  never  with  the  least  increase 
of  energy.  She  swept  the  room,  for  instance,  every  day,  never 
thoroughly,  but  in  a  gentle,  incompetent  sort  of  way  peculiarly 
her  own  ;  yet  she  always  swept  it  and  never  neglected  it,  and 
she  took  as  much  time  to  do  it  as  though  the  task  was  to  be 
performed  with  microscopic  exactness. 

She  lived  in  her  old  house  alone  save  for  the  presence  of 
one  child,  a  boy  of  six  or  seven  years — a  quiet,  grave-eyed 
little  fellow,  who  played  all  by  himself  hour  after  hour  with 
two  little  wooden  soldiers  and  an  empty  spool.  He  seldom 
went  out  of  the  house ;  he  did  not  seem  to  care  for  the  sun- 
shine or  the  open  air  as  other  children  care,  but  gravely 
amused  himself  in-doors  in  his  own  quiet  way.  He  did  not 
make  his  wooden  soldiers  talk  or  demolish  each  other  trium- 
phantly, according  to  the  manner  of  boys ;  but  he  marshaled 
them  to  and  fro  with  slow  consideration,  and  the  only  sound 
was  the  click  of  their  little  muskets  as  he  moved  them  about. 
He  seemed  never  to  speak  of  his  own  accord ;  he  was  strange- 
ly silent  always.  I  used  to  wonder  if  the  two  ever  talked  to- 
gether playfully  as  mother  and  child  should  talk;  and  one 
day,  emboldened  by  a  welcome,  not  warmer,  for  it  was  never 
warm,  but  not  quite  so  cold  perhaps,  I  said : 

"  Your  little  son  is  very  quiet,  madam." 

"  He  is  not  my  son." 

"  Ah !  "  I  replied,  somewhat  disconcerted.  "  He  is  a  pretty 
child  ;  what  is  his  name  ?  " 


184  IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 

"  His  name  is  John." 

The  child  heard  us  in  his  barren  corner,  but  did  not  look 
up  or  speak ;  he  made  his  two  soldiers  advance  solemnly  upon 
the  spool  in  silence,  with  a  flank  movement.  I  have  called 
the  corner  barren,  because  it  seemed  doubly  so  when  the  boy 
sat  there.  The  poorest  place  generally  puts  on  something  of 
a  homelike  air  when  a  little  child  is  in  it ;  but  the  two  bare 
walls  and  angle  of  bare  floor  remained  hopelessly  empty  and 
desolate.  The  room  was  large,  but  there  was  nothing  in  it 
save  the  two  wooden  chairs  and  a  table ;  there  was  no  wo- 
manly attempt  at  a  rag-carpet,  curtains  for  the  windows,  or 
newspaper  pictures  for  the  walls — none  of  those  little  con- 
trivances for  comfort  with  which  women  generally  adorn  even 
the  most  miserable  abiding-places,  showing  a  kind  of  courage 
which  is  often  pathetic  in  its  hopefulness.  Here,  however, 
there  was  nothing.  A  back-room  held  a  few  dishes,  some 
boxes  and  barrels,  and  showed  on  its  cavernous  hearth  the 
ashes  of  a  recent  fire.  "  I  suppose  they  sleep  in  a  third  bare 
room  somewhere,  with  their  two  beds,  no  doubt,  standing  all 
alone  in  the  center  of  the  chamber ;  for  it  would  be  too  hu- 
man, of  course,  to  put  them  up  snugly  against  the  wall,  as 
anybody  else  would  do,"  I  said  to  myself. 

In  time  I  succeeded  in  building  up  a  sort  of  friendship 
with  this  solitary  woman  of  the  waste,  and  in  time  she  told 
me  her  story.  Let  me  tell  it  to  you.  I  have  written  stories 
of  imagination,  but  this  is  a  story  of  fact,  and  I  want  you  to 
believe  it.  It  is  true,  every  word  of  it,  save  the  names  given, 
and,  when  you  read  it,  you  whose  eyes  are  now  upon  these 
lines,  stop  and  reflect  that  it  is  only  one  of  many  life-sto- 
ries like  unto  it.  "  War  is  cruelty,"  said  our  great  general. 
It  is.  It  must  be  so.  But  shall  we  not,  we  women,  like  Sis- 
ters of  Charity,  go  over  the  field  when  the  battle  is  done, 
bearing  balm  and  wine  and  oil  for  those  who  suffer  ? 

"  Down  here  in  the  cotton  country  we  were  rich  once, 
madam ;  we  were  richer  than  Northerners  ever  are,  for  we 
toiled  not  for  our  money,  neither  took  thought  for  it ;  it  came 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  185 

and  we  spent  it ;  that  was  all.  My  father  was  Clayton  Cotes- 
worth,  and  our  home  was  twenty  miles  from  here,  at  the 
Sand  Hills.  Our  cotton-lands  were  down  on  these  river- 
levels  ;  this  was  one  of  our  fields,  and  this  house  was  built 
for  the  overseer ;  the  negro-quarters  that  stood  around  it  have 
been  carried  off  piecemeal  by  the  freedmen."  (Impossible  to 
put  on  paper  her  accentuation  of  this  title.)  "  My  father  was 
an  old  man ;  he  could  not  go  to  battle  himself,  but  he  gave 
first  his  eldest  son,  my  brother  James.  James  went  away 
from  earth  at  Fredericksburg.  It  was  in  the  winter,  and  very 
cold.  How  often  have  I  thought  of  that  passage,  '  And  pray 
ye  that  your  flight  be  not  in  the  winter,'  when  picturing  his 
sufferings  before  his  spirit  took  flight !  Yes,  it  was  very  cold 
for  our  Southern  boys ;  the  river  was  full  of  floating  ice,  and 
the  raw  wind  swept  over  them  as  they  tried  to  throw  up  in- 
trenchments  on  the  heights.  They  had  no  spades,  only  pointed 
sticks,  and  the  ground  was  frozen  hard.  Their  old  uniforms, 
worn  thin  by  hard  usage,  hung  in  tatters,  and  many  of  them 
had  no  shoes  ;  the  skin  of  their  poor  feet  shone  blue,  or  glis- 
tening white,  like  a  dead  man's  skin,  through  the  coverings  of 
rags  they  made  for  themselves  as  best  they  could.  They  say 
it  was  a  pitiful  sight  to  see  the  poor  fellows  sitting  down  in 
the  mornings,  trying  to  adjust  these  rag-wrappings  so  that 
they  would  stay  in  place,  and  fastening  them  elaborately  with 
their  carefully  saved  bits  of  string.  He  was  an  honored  man 
who  invented  a  new  way.  My  brother  was  one  of  the  shoe- 
less ;  at  the  last,  too,  it  seems  that  he  had  no  blanket,  only  a 
thin  counterpane.  When  night  came,  hungry  and  tired  as  he 
was,  he  could  only  wrap  himself  in  that  and  lie  down  on  the 
cold  ground  to  wait  for  morning.  When  we  heard  all  this 
afterward,  we  said,  '  Blessed  be  the  bullet  that  put  him  out  of 
his  misery ! '  for  poor  James  was  a  delicate  boy,  and  had  been 
accustomed  to  loving,  watchful  care  all  his  life.  Yet,  oh,  if  I 
could  only  know  that  he  was  warm  once,  just  once,  before  he 
died  !  They  told  us  he  said  nothing  after  he  was  shot  save 
'  How  cold !  How  cold  ! '  They  put  his  poor,  stiff 


186  IN   THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 

tily  down  under  the  sod,  and  then  the  brigade  moved  on  ;  'no 
man  knoweth  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day.' 

"  Next  John  went,  my  second  brother.  He  said  good-by, 
and  marched  away  northward — northward,  northward,  always 
northward — to  cold,  corpse-strewed  Virginia,  who  cried  aloud 
to  us  continually,  '  More !  more  ! '  Her  roads  are  marked 
with  death  from  her  Peaks  of  Otter  to  the  sea,  and  her  great 
valley  ran  red.  We  went  to  her  from  all  over  the  South,  from 
Alabama,  Florida,  and  Georgia,  and  from  our  own  Carolina. 
We  died  there  by  thousands,  and  by  tens  of  thousands.  O 
Virginia,  our  dead  lie  thick  in  thy  tidewater  plains,  in  thy 
tangled  Wilderness,  and  along  thy  river-shores,  with  faces  up- 
turned, and  hearts  still  for  ever. 

"  John  came  back  to  us  once,  and  wedded  the  fair  girl  to 
whom  he  was  betrothed.  It  was  a  sad  bridal,  although  we 
made  it  as  gay  as  we  could  ;  for  we  had  come  to  the  times  of 
determined  gayety  then.  The  tone  of  society  was  like  the 
determinedly  gay  quicksteps  which  the  regimental  bands  play 
when  returning  from  a  funeral,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Le  roi  est 
mort,  vive  le  roi ! '  So  we  turned  our  old  silk  dresses,  and  made 
a  brave  appearance ;  if  our  shoes  were  shabby,  we  hid  them 
under  our  skirts  as  well  as  we  could,  and  held  our  heads  the 
higher.  Maum  Sally  made  a  big  wedding-cake,  as  of  old, 
and  we  went  without  meat  to  pay  for  the  spices  in  it ;  such 
luxuries  we  obtained  from  the  blockade-runners  now  and  then, 
but  they  were  worth  almost  their  weight  in  gold.  Then  John, 
too,  left  us.  In  four  months  he  also  was  taken — killed  by 
guerrillas,  it  is  supposed,  as  he  rode  through  a  lonely  moun- 
tain-defile. He  was  not  found  for  weeks ;  the  snow  fell  and 
covered  him,  mercifully  giving  the  burial  the  frozen  earth  de- 
nied. After  a  while  the  tidings  came  to  us,  and  poor  Mabel 
slowly  wept  herself  into  the  grave.  She  was  a  loving-hearted 
little  creature,  and  her  life  was  crushed.  She  looked  at  her 
baby  once,  called  his  name  John,  and  then  died.  The  child, 
that  boy  yonder,  seems  to  have  inherited  her  grief.  He  sheds 
no  tears,  however ;  his  girl-mother  shed  them  all,  both  for 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  187 

him  and  for  herself,  before  ever  he  saw  the  light.  My  turn 
came  next. 

"  You  have  been  married,  madam  ?  Did  you  love,  too  ?  I 
do  not  mean  regard,  or  even  calm  affection ;  I  do  not  mean 
sense  of  duty,  self-sacrifice,  or  religious  goodness.  I  mean 
love — love  that  absorbs  the  entire  being.  Some  women  love 
so  ;  I  do  not  say  they  are  the  happiest  women.  I  do  not  say 
they  are  the  best.  I  am  one  of  them.  But  God  made  us  all ; 
he  gave  us  our  hearts — we  did  not  choose  them.  Let  no  wo- 
man take  credit  to  herself  for  her  even  life,  simply  because  it 
has  been  even.  Doubtless,  if  he  had  put  her  out  in  the 
breakers,  she  would  have  swayed  too.  Perhaps  she  would 
have  drifted  from  her  moorings  also,  as  I  have  drifted.  I  go 
to  no  church ;  I  can  not  pray.  But  do  not  think  I  am  defiant ; 
no,  I  am  only  dead.  I  seek  not  the  old  friends,  few  and  ruined, 
who  remain  still  above-ground ;  I  have  no  hope,  I  might  al- 
most say  no  wish.  Torpidly  I  draw  my  breath  through  day 
and  night,  nor  care  if  the  rain  falls  or  the  sun  shines.  You 
Northern  women  would  work;  I  can  not.  Neither  have  I 
the  courage  to  take  the  child  and  die.  I  live  on  as  the  palsied 
animal  lives,  and  if  some  day  the  spring  fails,  and  the  few 
herbs  within  his  reach,  he  dies.  Nor  do  I  think  he  grieves 
much  about  it ;  he  only  eats  from  habit.  So  I. 

"  It  was  in  the  third  year  of  the  war  that  I  met  Ralph 
Kinsolving.  I  was  just  eighteen.  Our  courtship  was  short ; 
indeed,  I  hardly  knew  that  I  loved  him  until  he  spoke  and 
asked  me  to  give  him  myself.  '  Marry  me,  Judith,'  he  pleaded 
ardently ;  '  marry  me  before  I  go ;  let  it  be  my  wife  I  leave 
behind  me,  and  not  my  sweetheart.  For  sweethearts,  dear, 
can  not  come  to  us  in  camp  when  we  send,  as  we  shall  surely 
send  soon,  that  you  may  all  see  our  last  grand  review.'  So 
spoke  Rafe,  and  with  all  his  heart  he  believed  it.  We  all  be- 
lieved it.  Never  for  a  moment  did  we  doubt  the  final  triumph 
of  our  arms.  We  were  so  sure  we  were  right ! 

" '  Our  last  grand  review,'  said  Rafe ;  but  he  did  not  dream 
of  that  last  review  at  Appomattox,  when  eight  thousand 


188  IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 

gry,  exhausted  men  stacked  their  muskets  in  the  presence  of 
the  enemy,  whose  glittering  ranks,  eighty  thousand  strong, 
were  drawn  up  in  line  before  them,  while  in  the  rear  their 
well-filled  wagons  stood  —  wagons  whose  generous  plenty 
brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  many  a  poor  fellow  that  day, 
thinking,  even  while  he  eagerly  ate,  of  his  desolated  land,  and 
his  own  empty  fields  at  home. 

"  I  did  marry  my  soldier,  and,  although  it  was  in  haste,  I 
had  my  wedding-dress,  my  snowy  veil ;  lace  and  gauze  were 
not  needed  at  the  hospitals!  But  we  went  without  the 
wedding-cake  this  time,  and  my  satin  slippers  were  made  at 
home,  looking  very  like  a  pair  of  white  moccasins  when  fin- 
ished. 

"  In  the  middle  of  the  ceremony  there  was  an  alarm  ;  the 
slaves  had  risen  at  Latto's  down  the  river,  and  were  coming 
to  the  village  armed  with  clubs,  and,  worse  still,  infuriated 
with  liquor  they  had  found.  Even  our  good  old  rector  paused. 
There  were  but  few  white  men  at  home.  It  seemed  indeed  a 
time  for  pausing.  But  Rafe  said,  quietly,  '  Go  on  ! '  and,  un- 
sheathing his  sword,  he  laid  it  ready  on  the  chancel-rail.  '  To 
have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse, 
for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and  to 
cherish,  till  death  us  do  part,'  repeated  Rafe,  holding  my  hand 
in  his  firm  clasp,  and  looking  down  into  my  frightened  face  so 
tenderly  that  I  forgot  my  alarm — everything,  indeed,  save  his 
love.  But  when  the  last  word  was  spoken,  and  the  blessing 
pronounced  over  our  bowed  heads,  the  shining  sword  seeming 
a  silent  witness,  Rafe  left  me  like  a  flash.  The  little  church 
was  empty  when  I  rose  from  my  knees ;  the  women  had  hur- 
ried home  with  blanched  faces  to  bar  their  doors  and  barri- 
cade their  windows,  and  the  men  had  gone  for  their  horses 
and  guns ;  only  my  old  father  waited  to  give  me  his  blessing, 
and  then  we,  too,  hastened  homeward.  Our  little  band  of 
defenders  assembled  in  the  main  street,  and  rode  gallantly 
out  to  meet  the  negroes,  who  were  as  fifty  to  their  one.  Rafe 
was  the  leader,  by  virtue  of  his  uniform,  and  he  waved  his 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  189 

hand  to  me  as  he  rode  by.  '  Cheer  up,  Judith,'  he  cried ;  '  I 
will  soon  return.' 

"  I  never  saw  him  again. 

"  They  dispersed  the  negroes  without  much  difficulty ; 
Latto's  slaves  had  been  badly  treated  for  months,  they  had 
not  the  strength  to  fight  long.  But  Rafe  rode  to  the  next 
town  with  the  prisoners  under  his  charge,  and  there  he  met 
an  imploring  summons  to  the  coast ;  the  Federal  ships  had 
appeared  unexpectedly  off  the  harbor,  and  the  little  coast-city 
lay  exposed  and  helpless  at  the  mouth  of  the  river.  All  good 
men  and  true  within  reach  were  summoned  to  the  defense. 
So  my  soldier  went,  sending  back  word  to  me  a  second  time, 
'  I  will  soon  return.'  But  the  siege  was  long,  long — one  of 
those  bitterly  contested  little  sieges  of  minor  importance,  with 
but  small  forces  engaged  on  each  side,  which  were  so  numer- 
ous during  the  middle  times  of  the  war — those  middle  times 
after  the  first  high  hopes  had  been  disappointed,  and  before 
the  policy  of  concentration  had  been  adopted  by  the  North — 
that  slow,  dogged  North  of  yours  that  kept  going  back  and 
beginning  over  again,  until  at  last  it  found  out  how  to  do  it. 
This  little  siege  was  long  and  weary,  and  when  at  last  the 
Federal  vessels  went  suddenly  out  beyond  the  bar  again,  and 
the  town,  unconquered,  but  crippled  and  suffering,  lay  ex- 
hausted on  the  shore,  there  was  not  much  cause  for  rejoic- 
ing. Still  I  rejoiced ;  for  I  thought  that  Rafe  would  come. 
I  did  not  know  that  his  precious  furlough  had  expired  while 
he  was  shut  up  in  the  beleaguered  city,  and  that  his  colo- 
nel had  sent  an  imperative  summons,  twice  repeated.  Honor, 
loyalty,  commanded  him  to  go,  and  go  immediately.  He 
went. 

"  The  next  tidings  that  came  to  me  brought  word  that  he 
loved  me  and  was  well ;  the  next,  that  he  loved  me  and  was 
well ;  the  next,  that  he  loved  me  and  was — dead.  Madam, 
my  husband,  Ralph  Kinsolving,  was  shot — as  a  spy  ! 

"You  start — you  question — you  doubt.  But  spies  were 
shot  in  those  days,  were  they  not  ?  That  is  a  matter  of  his- 


190  IN   THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 

tory.  Very  well ;  you  are  face  to  face  now  with  the  wife  of 
one  of  them. 

"  You  did  not  expect  such  an  ending,  did  you  ?  You  have 
always  thought  of  spies  as  outcasts,  degraded  wretches,  and, 
if  you  remembered  their  wives  at  all,  it  was  with  the  idea  that 
they  had  not  much  feeling,  probably,  being  so  low  down  in 
the  scale  of  humanity.  But,  madam,  in  those  bitter,  hurrying 
days  men  were  shot  as  spies  who  were  no  spies.  Nay,  let 
me  finish ;  I  know  quite  well  that  the  shooting  was  not  con- 
fined to  one  side ;  I  acknowledge  that ;  but  it  was  done,  and 
mistakes  were  made.  Now  and  then  chance  brings  a  case  to 
light,  so  unmistakable  in  its  proof  that  those  who  hear  it 
shudder — as  now  and  then  also  chance  brings  a  coffin  to  light 
whose  occupant  was  buried  alive,  and  came  to  himself  when 
it  was  too  late.  But  what  of  the  cases  that  chance  does  not 
bring  to  light  ? 

"  My  husband  was  no  spy ;  but  it  had  been  a  trying  time 
for  the  Northern  commanders :  suspicion  lurked  everywhere ; 
the  whole  North  clamored  to  them  to  advance,  and  yet  their 
plans,  as  fast  as  they  made  them,  were  betrayed  in  some  way 
to  the  enemy.  An  example  was  needed — my  husband  fell  in 
the  way. 

"  He  explained  the  suspicious  circumstances  of  his  case, 
but  a  cloud  of  witnesses  rose  up  against  him,  and  he  proudly 
closed  his  lips.  They  gave  him  short  shrift ;  that  same  day 
he  was  led  out  and  met  his  death  in  the  presence  of  thou- 
sands. They  told  me  that  he  was  quite  calm,  and  held  him- 
self proudly ;  at  the  last  he  turned  his  face  to  the  south,  as  if 
he  were  gazing  down,  down,  into  the  very  heart  of  that  land 
for  whose  sake  he  was  about  to  die.  I  think  he  saw  the  cot- 
ton-fields then,  and  our  home ;  I  think  he  saw  me,  also,  for 
the  last  time. 

"  By  the  end  of  that  year,  madam,  my  black  hair  was  gray, 
as  you  see  it  now ;  I  was  an  old  woman  at  nineteen. 

"  My  father  and  I  and  that  grave-eyed  baby  lived  on  in 
the  old  house.  Our  servants  had  left  us,  all  save  one,  old 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  191 

Cassy,  who  had  been  my  nurse  or  'maumee,'  as  we  called 
her.  We  suffered,  of  course.  We  lived  as  very  poor  people 
live.  The  poorest  slaves  in  the  old  time  had  more  than  we 
had  then.  But  we  did  not  murmur ;  the  greater  griefs  had 
swallowed  up  the  less.  I  said,  '  Is  there  any  sorrow  like  unto 
my  sorrow  ? '  But  the  end  was  not  yet. 

"  You  have  heard  the  story  of  the  great  march,  the  march 
to  the  sea  ?  But  there  was  another  march  after  that,  a  march 
of  which  your  own  writers  have  said  that  its  route  was  marked 
by  a  pillar  of  smoke  by  day  and  of  flame  by  night — the  march 
through  South  Carolina.  The  Northern  soldiers  shouted 
when  they  came  to  the  yellow  tide  of  the  Savannah,  and 
looked  across  and  knew  that  the  other  shore  was  South  Caro- 
lina soil.  They  crossed,  and  Carolina  was  bowed  to  the  dust. 
Those  were  the  days  we  cried  in  the  morning,  '  O  God,  that 
it  were  night ! '  and  in  the  night,  '  O  God,  that  it  were  morn- 
ing ! '  Retribution,  do  you  say  ?  It  may  be  so.  But  love 
for  our  State  seemed  loyalty  to  us ;  and  slavery  was  the  sin 
of  our  fathers,  not  ours.  Surely  we  have  expiated  it  now. 

"  '  Chile-,  chile,  dey  is  come  ! '  cried  old  Cassy,  bursting  into 
my  room  one  afternoon,  her  withered  black  face  grayly  pale 
with  fear.  I  went  out.  Cavalrymen  were  sweeping  the  vil- 
lage of  all  it  contained,  the  meager  little  that  was  left  to  us  in 
our  penury.  My  father  was  asleep ;  how  I  prayed  that  he 
might  not  waken!  Although  an  old  man,  he  was  fiery  as 
a  boy,  and  proudly,  passionately  rebellious  against  the  fate 
which  had  come  upon  us.  Our  house  was  some  distance 
back  from  the  road,  and  broad  grounds  separated  us  from 
the  neighboring  residences.  Cassy  and  I  softly  piled  our  pil- 
lows and  cushions  against  the  doors  and  windows  that  opened 
from  his  room  to  the  piazza.,  hoping  to  deaden  the  sounds 
outside,  for  some  of  our  people  were  resisting,  and  now  and 
then  I  heard  shouts  and  oaths.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  My 
dear  old  father  woke,  heard  the  sounds,  and  rushed  out  into 
the  street  sword  in  hand  ;  for  he  had  been  a  soldier  too,  serv- 
ing with  honor  through  the  Mexican  War.  Made  desperate 


192  IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY: 

by  my  fears  for  him,  I  followed.  There  was  a  meUe  in  the 
road  before  our  house ;  a  high  wind  blew  the  thick  dust  in 
my  eyes  and  half  blinded  me,  so  that  I  only  saw  struggling 
forms  on  foot  and  on  horseback,  and  could  not  distinguish 
friend  or  foe.  Into  this  group  my  father  rushed.  I  never  knew 
the  cause  of  the  contest ;  probably  it  was  an  ill-advised  attack 
by  some  of  our  people,  fiery  and  reasonless  always.  But, 
whatever  it  was,  at  length  there  came  one,  two,  three  shots, 
and  then  the  group  broke  apart.  I  rushed  forward  and  re- 
ceived my  old  father  in  my  arms,  dying — dead.  His  head  lay 
on  my  shoulder  as  I  knelt  in  the  white  road,  and  his  silver 
hair  was  dabbled  with  blood  ;  he  had  been  shot  through  the 
head  and  breast,  and  lived  but  a  moment. 

"  We  carried  him  back  to  the  house,  old  Cassy  and  I, 
slowly,  and  with  little  regard  for  the  bullets  which  now 
whistled  through  the  air ;  for  the  first  shots  had  brought  to- 
gether the  scattered  cavalrymen,  who  now  rode  through  the 
streets  firing  right  and  left,  more  at  random,  I  think,  than 
with  direct  aim,  yet  still  determined  to  'frighten  the  rebels/ 
and  avenge  the  soldier,  one  of  their  number,  who  had  been 
killed  at  the  beginning  of  the  fray.  We  laid  my  father  down 
in  the  center  of  the  hall,  and  prepared  him  for  his  long  sleep. 
No  one  came  to  help  us ;  no  one  came  to  sorrow  with  us ; 
each  household  gathered  its  own  together  and  waited  with 
bated  breath  for  what  was  still  to  come.  I  watched  alone 
beside  my  dead  that  night,  the  house-doors  stood  wide  open, 
and  lights  burned  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the  couch.  I  said 
to  myself,  '  Let  them  come  now  and  take  their  fill.'  But  no 
one  disturbed  me,  and  I  kept  my  vigil  from  midnight  until 
dawn ;  then  there  came  a  sound  of  many  feet,  and  when  the 
sun  rose  our  streets  were  full  of  blue-coated  soldiers,  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  ;  one  wing  of  the  great  army  was  march- 
ing through.  There  was  still  hot  anger  against  us  for  our 
resistance,  and  when  the  commanding  officers  arrived  they 
ordered  guards  to  be  stationed  at  every  house,  with  orders  to 
shoot  any  man  or  boy  who  showed  himself  outside  of  his 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  193 

doorway.  All  day  and  night  the  Federal  soldiers  would  be 
passing  through,  and  the  guards  gave  notice  that  if  another 
man  was  injured  twenty  rebel  lives  should  answer  for  it. 

"  '  We  must  bury  my  father,  you  and  I  together,  Cassy,' 
I  said  ;  '  there  is  no  one  to  help  us.  Come  ! ' 

"  The  old  woman  followed  me  without  a  word.  Had  I 
bidden  her  go  alone,  even  as  far  as  the  door-step,  she  would 
have  cowered  at  my  feet  in  abject  terror ;  but,  following  me, 
she  would  have  gone  unquestioning  to  the  world's  end.  The 
family  burial-place  was  on  our  own  grounds,  according  to 
the  common  custom  of  the  South ;  thither  we  turned  our 
steps,  and  in  silence  hollowed  out  a  grave  as  best  we  could. 
The  guard  near  by  watched  us  with  curiosity  for  some  time ; 
at  last  he  approached  : 

"  '  What  are  you  two  women  doing  there  ?  ' 

"  «  Digging  a  grave.' 

"  '  For  whom  ?  ' 

"  '  For  my  father,  who  lies  dead  in  the  house.' 

"  He  withdrew  a  short  distance,  but  still  wratched  us  closely, 
and  when  all  was  ready,  and  we  returned  to  the  house  for  our 
burden,  I  saw  him  signal  the  next  guard.  '  They  will  not 
interrupt  us,'  I  said;  'we  are  only  two  women  and  a  dead 
man.' 

"  I  wrapped  my  dear  father  in  his  cloak,  and  covered  his 
face ;  then  we  bore  the  lounge  on  which  he  lay  out  into  the 
sunshine  down  toward  the  open  grave.  The  weight  of  this 
poor  frame  of  ours  when  dead  is  marvelous,  and  we  moved 
slowly ;  but  at  length  we  reached  the  spot.  I  had  lined  the 
grave  with  coverlids  and  a  fine  linen  sheet,  and  now,  with  the 
aid  of  blankets,  we  lowered  the  clay  to  its  last  resting-place. 
Then,  opening  my  prayer-book,  I  read  aloud  the  service  for 
the  burial  of  the  dead,  slowly,  and  without  tears,  for  I  was 
thinking  of  the  meeting  above  of  the  old  father  and  his  two 
boys :  '  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  refuge  from  one  generation 
to  another.  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or 
ever  the  earth  and  the  world  were  made,  thou  art  God  from 
9 


194  IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 

everlasting.'  I  took  a  clod  and  cast  it  upon  the  shrouded 
breast  below.  '  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust/ 
I  said,  and  old  Cassy,  kneeling  opposite,  broke  forth  into  low 
wailing,  and  rocked  her  body  to  and  fro.  Then  we  filled  the 
grave.  I  remember  that  I  worked  with  feverish  strength  ;  if 
it  was  not  done  quickly,  I  knew  I  could  never  do  it  at  all. 
Can  you  realize  what  it  would  be  to  stand  and  shovel  the 
earth  with  your  own  hands  upon  your  dead  ? — to  hear  the 
gravel  fall  and  strike  ? — to  see  the  last  shrouded  outline  dis- 
appear under  the  stifling,  heavy  clods  ?  All  this  it  was  mine 
to  do.  When  it  was  over  I  turned  to  go,  and  for  the  first 
time  lifted  my  eyes.  There  at  the  fence-corner  stood  a  row 
of  Federal  soldiers,  silent,  attentive,  and  with  bared  heads ; 
my  father  was  buried  with  military  honors  after  all. 

"  During  all  that  day  and  night  the  blue-coated  ranks 
marched  by ;  there  seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  line  of  glitter- 
ing muskets.  I  watched  them  passively,  holding  the  orphan- 
boy  on  my  knee ;  I  felt  as  though  I  should  never  move  or 
speak  again.  But  after  the  army  came  the  army-followers 
and  stragglers,  carrion-birds  who  flew  behind  the  conquerors 
and  devoured  what  they  had  left.  They  swept  the  town  clean 
of  food  and  raiment ;  many  houses  they  wantonly  burned ; 
what  they  could  not  carry  with  them  they  destroyed.  My 
own  home  did  nqt  escape  :  rude  men  ransacked  every  closet 
and  drawer,  and  cut  in  ribbons  the  old  portraits  on  the  wall, 
A  German,  coming  in  from  the  smoke-house,  dripping  with 
bacon-juice,  wiped  his  hands  upon  my  wedding-ve3,  which 
had  been  discovered  and  taken  from  its  box  by  a  former  in- 
truder. It  was  a  little  thing ;  but,  oh,  how  it  hurt  me !  At 
length  the  last  straggler  left  us,  and  we  remained  in  the  ashes. 
We  could  not  sit  down  and  weep  for  ourselves  and  for  our 
dead  ;  the  care  of  finding  wherewithal  to  eat  thrust  its  coarse 
necessity  upon  us,  and  forced  us  to  our  feet.  I  had  thought 
that  all  the  rest  of  my  life  would  fee  but  a  bowed  figure  at  the 
door  of  a  sepulchre ;  but  the  camp-followers  came  by,  took 
the  bowed  figure  by  the  arm,  and  forced  it  back  to  every-day 


IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY.  195 

life.  We  could  no  longer  taste  the  luxury  of  tears.  For  days 
our  people  lived  on  the  refuse  left  by  the  army,  the  bits  of 
meat  and  bread  they  had  thrown  aside  from  their  plenty  ;  we 
picked  up  the  corn  with  which  they  had  fed  their  horses,  ker- 
nel by  kernel,  and  boiled  it  for  our  dinner ;  we  groped  in  the 
ashes  of  their  camp-fires  ;  little  children  learned  the  sagacity 
of  dogs  seeking  for  bones,  and  quarreled  over  their  findings. 
The  fortune  of  war,  do  you  say  ?  Yes,  the  fortune  of  war ! 
But  it  is  one  thing  to  say,  and  another  thing  to  feel ! 

"  We  came  away,  madam,  for  our  home  was  in  ashes — old 
Cassy,  the  child,  and  I ;  we  came  on  foot  to  this  place,  and 
here  we  have  staid.  No,  the  fields  are  never  cultivated  now. 
The  dike  has  been  broken  down  in  too  many  places,  and 
freshets  have  drained  all  the  good  out  of  the  soil ;  the  land  is 
worthless.  It  was  once  my  father's  richest  field.  Yes,  Cassy 
is  dead.  She  was  buried  by  her  own  people,  who  forgave  her 
at  the  last  for  having  been  so  spiritless  as  to  stay  with  '  young 
missis,'  when  she  might  have  tasted  the  glories  of  freedom 
over  in  the  crowded  hollow  where  the  blacks  were  enjoying 
themselves  and  dying  by  the  score.  In  six  months  half  of 
them  were  gone.  They  had  their  freedom — oh,  yes,  plenty  of 
it ;  they  were  quite  free — to  die  !  For,  you  see,  madam,  their 
masters,  those  villainous  old  masters  of  theirs,  were  no  longer 
there  to  feed  and  clothe  them.  Oh  !  it  was  a  great  deliver- 
ance for  the  enfranchised  people  !  Bitter,  am  I  ?  Put  your- 
self in  my  place. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?  Nothing.  The  boy?  He 
must  take  his  chances.  Let  him  grow  up  under  the  new 
rtgime ;  I  have  told  him  nothing  of  the  old.  It  may  be  that 
he  will  prosper ;  people  do  prosper,  they  tell  me.  It  seems 
we  were  wrong,  all  wrong  ;  then  we  must  be  very  right  now, 
for  the  blacks  are  our  judges,  councilors,  postmasters,  repre- 
sentatives, and  law-makers.  That  is  as  it  should  be,  isn't  it  ? 
What !  not  so  ?  But  how  can  it  be  otherwise  ?  Ah,  you 
think  that  a  new  king  will  arise  who  knows  not  Joseph — that 
is,  that  a  new  generation  will  come  to  whom  these  questions 


196  IN  THE  COTTON  COUNTRY. 

will  be  things  of  the  past.  It  may  be  so  ;  I  do  not  know.  I 
do  not  know  anything  certainly  any  more,  for  my  world  has 
been  torn  asunder,  and  I  am  uprooted  and  lost.  No,  you  can 
not  help  me,  no  one  can  help  me.  I  can  not  adjust  myself  to 
the  new  order  of  things  ;  I  can  not  fit  myself  in  new  soil ;  the 
fibers  are  broken.  Leave  me  alone,  and  give  your  help  to  the 
young ;  they  can  profit  by  it.  The  child  ?  Well,  if — if  you 
really  wish  it,  I  will  not  oppose  you.  Take  him,  and  bring 
him  up  in  your  rich,  prosperous  North ;  the  South  has  no 
place  for  him.  Go,  and  God  speed  you  !  But,  as  for  me,  I 
will  abide  in  mine  own  country.  It  will  not  be  until  such  as 
I  have  gone  from  earth  that  the  new  blood  can  come  to  her. 
Let  us  alone ;  we  will  watch  the  old  life  out  with  her,  and 
when  her  new  dawning  comes  we  shall  have  joined  our  dead, 
and  all  of  us,  our  errors,  our  sins,  and  our  sufferings  will  be 
forgotten." 


FELIPA. 


Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that,  myriad  cloven, 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs. 

....  Green  colonnades 

Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 
Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within 
The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn. 

Free 

By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shimmering  band 

Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to  the  folds  of  the  land. 

Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  southward  the  beach-lines  linger  and 

curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows  the  firm,  sweet  limbs  of 

a  girl. 

A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad  in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light  or  a  shade. 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

CHRISTINE  and  I  found  her  there.  She  was  a  small,  dark- 
skinned,  yellow-eyed  child,  the  offspring  of  the  ocean  and  the 
heats,  tawny,  lithe  and  wild,  shy  yet  fearless — not  unlike  one 
of  the  little  brown  deer  that  bounded  through  the  open  reaches 
of  the  pine-barren  behind  the  house.  She  did  not  come  to 
us — we  came  to  her  ;  we  loomed  into  her  life  like  genii  from 
another  world,  and  she  was  partly  afraid  and  partly  proud  of 
us.  For  were  we  not  her  guests  ?  proud  thought !  and,  bet- 
ter still,  were  we  not  women ?  "I  have  only  seen  three  wo- 
men in  all  my  life,"  said  Felipa,  inspecting  us  gravely,  "  and  I 
like  women.  I  am  a  woman  too,  although  these  clothes  of 
the  son  of  Pedro  make  me  appear  as  a  boy ;  I  wear  them  on 


198  FELIPA. 

account  of  the  boat  and  the  hauling  in  of  the  fish.  The  son 
of  Pedro  being  dead  at  a  convenient  age,  and  his  clothes  fit- 
ting me,  what  would  you  have  ?  It  was  a  chance  not  to  be 
despised.  But  when  I  am  grown  I  shall  wear  robes  long  and 
beautiful  like  the  senora's."  The  little  creature  was  dressed 
in  a  boy's  suit  of  dark-blue  linen,  much  the  worse  for  wear, 
and  torn. 

"  If  you  are  a  girl,  why  do  you  not  mend  your  clothes  ?  " 
I  said. 

"  Do  you  mend,  sefiora  ?  " 

"  Certainly :  all  women  sew  and  mend." 

"  The  other  lady  ?  " 

Christine  laughed  as  she  lay  at  ease  upon  the  brown  car- 
pet of  pine-needles,  warm  and  aromatic  after  the  tropic  day's 
sunshine.  "  The  child  has  divined  me  already,  Catherine," 
she  said. 

Christine  was  a  tall,  lissome  maid,  with  an  unusually  long 
stretch  of  arm,  long  sloping  shoulders,  and  a  long  fair  throat ; 
her  straight  hair  fell  to  her  knees  when  unbound,  and  its  clear 
flaxen  hue  had  not  one  shade  of  gold,  as  her  clear  gray  eyes 
had  not  one  shade  of  blue.  Her  small,  straight,  rose-leaf  lips 
parted  over  small,  dazzlingly  white  teeth,  and  the  outline  of 
her  face  in  profile  reminded  you  of  an  etching  in  its  distinct- 
ness, although  it  was  by  no  means  perfect  according  to  the 
rules  of  art.  Still,  what  a  comfort  it  was,  after  the  blurred  out- 
lines and  smudged  profiles  many  of  us  possess — seen  to  best 
advantage,  I  think,  in  church  on  Sundays,  crowned  with  flower- 
decked  bonnets,  listening  calmly  serene  to  favorite  ministers, 
unconscious  of  noses !  When  Christine  had  finished  her 
laugh — and  she  never  hurried  anything — she  stretched  out 
her  arm  carelessly  and  patted  Felipa's  curly  head.  The  child 
caught  the  descending  hand  and  kissed  the  long  white  fingers. 

It  was  a  wild  place  where  we  were,  yet  not  new  or  crude — 
the  coast  of  Florida,  that  old-new  land,  with  its  deserted  plan- 
tations, its  skies  of  Paradise,  and  its  broad  wastes  open  to  the 
changeless  sunshine.  The  old  house  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 


F ELI  PA.  199 

dry  land,  where  the  pine-barren  ended  and  the  salt-marsh 
began ;  in  front  curved  the  tide-water  river  that  seemed  ever 
trying  to  come  up  close  to  the  barren  and  make  its  acquaint- 
ance, but  could  not  quite  succeed,  since  it  must  always  turn 
and  flee  at  a  fixed  hour,  like  Cinderella  at  the  ball,  leaving  not 
a  silver  slipper  behind,  but  purple  driftwood  and  bright  sea- 
weeds, brought  in  from  the  Gulf  Stream  outside.  A  planked 
platform  ran  out  into  the  marsh  from  the  edge  of  the  barren, 
and  at  its  end  the  boats  were  moored  ;  for,  although  at  high 
tide  the  river  was  at  our  feet,  at  low  tide  it  was  far  away  out 
in  the  green  waste  somewhere,  and  if  we  wanted  it  we  must 
go  and  seek  it.  We  did  not  want  it,  however ;  we  let  it  glide 
up  to  us  twice  a  day  with  its  fresh  salt  odors  and  flotsam  of 
the  ocean,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  we  wandered  over  the  bar- 
rens or  lay  under  the  trees  looking  up  into  the  wonderful  blue 
above,  listening  to  the  winds  as  they  rushed  across  from  sea 
to  sea.  I  was  an  artist,  poor  and  painstaking.  Christine  was 
my  kind  friend.  She  had  brought  me  South  because  my  cough 
was  troublesome,  and  here  because  Edward  Bowne  recom- 
mended the  place.  He  and  three  fellow  sportsmen  were  down 
at  the  Madre  Lagoon,  farther  south  ;  I  thought  it  probable  we 
should  see  him,  without  his  three  fellow  sportsmen,  before 
very  long. 

"  Who  were  the  three  women  you  have  seen,  Felipa  ?  " 
said  Christine. 

"  The  grandmother,  an  Indian  woman  of  the  Seminoles 
who  comes  sometimes  with  baskets,  and  the  wife  of  Miguel 
of  the  island.  But  they  are  all  old,  and  their  skins  are  curled  : 
I  like  better  the  silver  skin  of  the  sefiora." 

Poor  little  Felipa  lived  on  the  edge  of  the  great  salt-marsh 
alone  with  her  grandparents,  for  her  mother  was  dead.  The 
yellow  old  couple  were  slow-witted  Minorcans,  part  pagan, 
part  Catholic,  and  wholly  ignorant;  their  minds  rarely  rose 
above  the  level  of  their  orange-trees  and  their  fish-nets. 
Felipa's  father  was  a  Spanish  sailor,  and,  as  he  had  died  only 
the  year  before,  the  child's  Spanish  was  fairly  correct,  and  we 


200  FELIPA. 

could  converse  with  her  readily,  although  we  were  slow  to 
comprehend  the  patois  of  the  old  people,  which  seemed  to 
borrow  as  much  from  the  Italian  tongue  and  the  Greek  as 
from  its  mother  Spanish.  "  I  know  a  great  deal,"  Felipa  re- 
marked confidently,  "  for  my  father  taught  me.  He  had  sailed 
on  the  ocean  out  of  sight  of  land,  and  he  knew  many  things. 
These  he  taught  to  me.  Do  the  gracious  ladies  think  there  is 
anything  else  to  know?  " 

One  of  the  gracious  ladies  thought  not,  decidedly.  In 
answer  to  my  remonstrance,  expressed  in  English,  she  said, 
"  Teach  a  child  like  that,  and  you  ruin  her." 

"  Ruin  her  ?  " 

"  Ruin  her  happiness — the  same  thing." 

Felipa  had  a  dog,  a  second  self — a  great  gaunt  yellow 
creature  of  unknown  breed,  with  crooked  legs,  big  feet,  and 
the  name  Drollo.  What  Drollo  meant,  or  whether  it  was  an 
abbreviation,  we  never  knew ;  but  there  was  a  certain  satis- 
faction in  it,  for  the  dog  was  droll :  the  fact  that  the  Minorcan 
title,  whatever  it  was,  meant  nothing  of  that  sort,  made  it  all 
the  better.  We  never  saw  Felipa  without  Drollo.  "  They 
look  a  good  deal  alike,"  observed  Christine — "  the  same  col- 
oring." 

"  For  shame  ! "  I  said. 

But  it  was  true.  The  child's  bronzed  yellow  skin  and  soft 
eyes  were  not  unlike  the  dog's,  but  her  head  was  crowned 
with  a  mass  of  short  black  curls,  while  Drollo  had  only  his 
two  great  flapping  ears  and  his  low  smooth  head.  Give  him 
an  inch  or  two  more  of  skull,  and  what  a  creature  a  dog 
would  be !  For  love  and  faithfulness  even  now  what  man  can 
match  him  ?  But,  although  ugly,  Felipa  was  a  picturesque 
little  object  always,  whether  attired  in  boy's  clothes  or  in  her 
own  forlorn  bodice  and  skirt.  Olive-hued  and  meager-faced, 
lithe  and  thin,  she  flew  over  the  pine-barrens  like  a  creature 
of  air,  laughing  to  feel  her  short  curls  toss  and  her  thin  child- 
ish arms  buoyed  up  on  the  breeze  as  she  ran,  with  Drollo 
barking  behind.  For  she  loved  the  winds,  and  always  knew 


FELIPA.  201 

when  they  were  coming — whether  down  from  the  north,  in 
from  the  ocean,  or  across  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  :  she 
watched  for  them,  sitting  in  the  doorway,  where  she  could 
feel  their  first  breath,  and  she  taught  us  the  signs  of  the 
clouds.  She  was  a  queer  little  thing :  we  used  to  find  her 
sometimes  dancing  alone  out  on  the  barren  in  a  circle  she  had. 
marked  out  with  pine-cones,  and  once  she  confided  to  us  that 
she  talked  to  the  trees.  "  They  hear,"  she  said  in  a  whisper  ; 
"  you  should  see  how  knowing  they  look,  and  how  their  leaves 
listen." 

Once  we  came  upon  her  most  secret  lair  in  a  dense  thicket 
of  thorn-myrtle  and  wild  smilax — a  little  bower  she  had 
made,  where  was  hidden  a  horrible-looking  image  formed  of 
the  rough  pieces  of  saw-palmetto  grubbed  up  by  old  Bartolo 
from  his  garden.  She  must  have  dragged  these  fragments 
thither  one  by  one,  and  with  infinite  pains  bound  them  to- 
gether with  her  rude  withes  of  strong  marsh-grass,  until  at 
last  she  had  formed  a  rough  trunk  with  crooked  arms  and  a 
sort  of  a  head,  the  red  hairy  surface  of  the  palmetto  looking 
not  unlike  the  skin  of  some  beast,  and  making  the  creature 
all  the  more  grotesque.  This  fetich  was  kept  crowned  with 
flowers,  and  after  this  we  often  saw  the  child  stealing  away 
with  Drollo  to  carry  to  it  portions  of  her  meals  or  a  new-found 
treasure — a  sea-shell,  a  broken  saucer,  or  a  fragment  of  rib- 
bon. The  food  always  mysteriously  disappeared,  and  my 
suspicion  is  that  Drollo  used  to  go  back  secretly  in  the  night 
and  devour  it,  asking  no  questions  and  telling  no  lies  :  it  fitted 
in  nicely,  however,  Drollo  merely  performing  the  ancient 
part  of  the  priests  of  Jupiter,  men  who  have  been  much  ad- 
mired. "  What  a  little  pagan  she  is  !  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  only  her  doll,"  replied  Christine. 

I  tried  several  times  to  paint  Felipa  during  these  first 
weeks,  but  those  eyes  of  hers  always  evaded  me.  They  were, 
as  I  have  said  before*  yellow — that  is,  they  were  brown  with 
yellow  lights— and  they  stared  at  you  with  the  most  inflexible 
openness.  The  child  had  the  full-curved,  half-open  mouth  of 


202  FELIPA. 

the  tropics,  and  a  low  Greek  forehead.  "Why  isn't  she 
pretty  ?  "  I  said. 

"  She  is  hideous,"  replied  Christine ;  "  look  at  her  elbows." 

Now  Felipa's  arms  were  unpleasant:  they  were  brown 
and  lean,  scratched  and  stained,  and  they  terminated  in  a 
pair  of  determined  little  paws  that  could  hold  on  like  grim 
Death.  I  shall  never  forget  coming  upon  a  tableau  one  day 
out  on  the  barren — a  little  Florida  cow  and  Felipa,  she  hold- 
ing on  by  the  horns,  and  the  beast  with  its  small  fore  feet 
stubbornly  set  in  the  sand ;  girl  pulling  one  way,  cow  the 
other ;  both  silent  and  determined.  It  was  a  hard  contest, 
but  the  girl  won. 

"  And  if  you  pass  over  her  elbows,  there  are  .her  feet," 
continued  Christine  languidly.  For  she  was  a  sybaritic  lover 
of  the  fine  linens  of  life,  that  friend  of  mine — a  pre-Raphaelite 
lady  with  clinging  draperies  and  a  mediaeval  clasp  on  her  belt. 
Her  whole  being  rebelled  against  ugliness,  and  the  mere  sight 
of  a  sharp-nosed,  light-eyed  woman  on  a  cold  day  made  her 
uncomfortable. 

"  Have  we  not  feet  too  ?  "  I  replied  sharply. 

But  I  knew  what  she  meant.  Bare  feet  are  not  pleasant 
to  the  eye  nowadays,  whatever  they  may  have  been  in  the 
days  of  the  ancient  Greeks  ;  and  Felipa's  little  brown  insteps 
were  half  the  time  torn  or  bruised  by  the  thorns  of  the  cha- 
parral. Besides,  there  was  always  the  disagreeable  idea  that 
she  might  step  upon  something  cold  and  squirming  when  she 
prowled  through  the  thickets  knee-deep  in  the  matted  grasses. 
Snakes  abounded,  although  we  never  saw  them ;  but  Felipa 
went  up  to  their  very  doors,  as  it  were,  and  rang  the  bell  de- 
fiantly. 

One  day  old  Grandfather  Bartolo  took  the  child  with  him 
down  to  the  coast :  she  was  always  wild  to  go  to  the  beach, 
where  she  could  gather  shells  and  sea-beans,  and  chase  the 
little  ocean-birds  that  ran  along  close  to  the  waves  with  that 
swift  gliding  motion  of  theirs,  and  where  she  could  listen  to 
the  roar  of  the  breakers.  We  were  several  miles  up  the  salt- 


FELIPA.  203 

marsh,  and  to  go  down  to  the  ocean  was  quite  a  voyage  to 
Felipa.  She  bade  us  good-by  joyously;  then  ran  back  to 
hug  Christine  a  second  time,  then  to  the  boat  again ;  then 
back. 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  go,  child  ?  "  I  said,  a  little  im- 
patiently ;  for  I  was  reading  aloud,  and  these  small  irruptions 
were  disturbing. 

"  Yes,"  said  Felipa,  "  I  want  to  go  ;  and  still —  Perhaps 
if  the  gracious  senora  would  kiss  me  again — " 

Christine  only  patted  her  cheek  and  told  her  to  run  away : 
she  obeyed,  but  there  was  a  wistful  look  in  her  eyes,  and,  even 
after  the  boat  had  started,  her  face,  watching  us  from  the 
stern,  haunted  me. 

"  Now  that  the  little  monkey  has  gone,  I  may  be  able  at 
last  to  catch  and  fix  a  likeness  of  her,"  I  said  ;  "  in  this  case 
a  recollection  is  better  than  the  changing  quicksilver  reality." 

"  You  take  it  as  a  study  of  ugliness  ?  " 

"  Do  not  be  hard  upon  the  child,  Christine." 

"  Hard  ?  Why,  she  adores  me,"  said  my  friend,  going  off 
to  her  hammock  under  the  tree. 

Several  days  passed,  and  the  boat  returned  not.  I  accom- 
plished a  fine  amount  of  work,  and  Christine  a  fine  amount 
of  swinging  in  the  hammock  and  dreaming.  At  length  one 
afternoon  I  gave  my  final  touch,  and  carried  my  sketch  over 
to  the  pre-Raphaelite  lady  for  criticism.  "  What  do  you  see  ?  " 
I  said. 

"  I  see  a  wild-looking  child  with  yellow  eyes,  a  mat  of  curly 
black  hair,  a  lank  little  bodice,  her  two  thin  brown  arms 
embracing  a  gaunt  old  dog  with  crooked  legs,  big  feet,  and 
turned-in  toes." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  All." 

"  You  do  not  see  latent  beauty,  courage,  and  a  possible 
great  gulf  of  love  in  that  poor  wild  little  face  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,"  replied  Christine  decidedly.  "  I 
see  an  ugly  little  girl ;  that  is  all." 


204  FELIPA. 

The  next  day  the  boat  returned,  and  brought  back  five 
persons,  the  old  grandfather,  Felipa,  Drollo,  Miguel  of  the 
island,  and — Edward  Bowne. 

"Already?"  I  said. 

"  Tired  of  the  Madre,  Kitty ;  thought  I  would  come  up 
here  and  see  you  for  a  while.  I  knew  you  must  be  pining  for 
me." 

"  Certainly,"  I  replied ;  "  do  you  not  see  how  I  have  wast- 
ed away  ?  " 

He  drew  my  arm  through  his  and  raced  me  down  the 
plank-walk  toward  the  shore,  where  I  arrived  laughing  and 
out  of  breath. 

"  Where  is  Christine  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  came  back  irfto  the  traces  at  once.  "  Over  there  in  the 
hammock.  You  wish  to  go  to  the  house  first,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  But  she  did  not  come  to  meet  you,  Edward,  although 
she  knew  you  had  landed." 

"  Of  course  not,  also." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you  two." 

"  And  of  course  not,  a  third  time,"  said  Edward,  looking 
down  at  me  with  a  smile.  "  What  do  peaceful  little  artists 
know  about  war  ?  " 

"  Is  it  war  ?  " 

"Something  very  like  it,  Kitty.  What  is  that  you  are 
carrying  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  my  new  sketch.     What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  Good,  very  good.  Some  little  girl  about  here,  I  suppose  ? 

"  Why,  it  is  Felipa  !  " 

"  And  who  is  Felipa  ?  Seems  to  me  I  have  seen  that  old 
dog,  though." 

"  Of  course  you  have ;  he  was  in  the  boat  with  you,  and 
so  was  Felipa ;  but  she  was  dressed  in  boy's  clothes,  and  that 
gives  her  a  different  look." 

"  Oh !  that  boy  ?  I  remember  him.  His  name  is  Philip. 
He  is  a  funny  little  fellow,"  said  Edward  calmly. 


FELIPA.  205 

14  Her  name  is  Felipa,  and  she  is  not  a  boy  or  a  funny  lit- 
tle fellow  at  all,"  I  replied. 

"  Isn't  she  ?  I  thought  she  was  both,"  replied  Ned  care- 
lessly ;  and  then  he  went  off  toward  the  hammock.  I  turned 
away,  after  noting  Christine's  cool  greeting,  and  went  back  to 
the  boat. 

Felipa  came  bounding  to  meet  me.  "  What  is  his  name  ?  " 
she  demanded. 

"  Bowne." 

"  Buon — Buona ;  I  can  not  say  it." 

"  Bowne,  child — Edward  Bowne." 

"  Oh !  Eduardo  ;  I  know  that.  Eduardo — Eduardo — a 
name  of  honey." 

She  flew  off  singing  the  name,  followed  by  Drollo  carrying 
his  mistress's  palmetto  basket  in  his  big  patient  mouth ;  but 
when  I  passed  the  house  a  few  moments  afterward  she  was 
singing,  or  rather  talking  volubly  of,  another  name — "  Miguel," 
and  "the  wife  of  Miguel,"  who  were  apparently  important 
personages  on  the  canvas  of  her  life.  As  it  happened,  I  never 
really  saw  that  wife  of  Miguel,  who  seemingly  had  no  name 
of  her  own  ;  but  I  imagined  her.  She  lived  on  a  sand-bar  in 
the  ocean  not  far  from  the  mouth  of  our  salt-marsh  ;  she  drove 
pelicans  like  ducks  with  a  long  switch,  and  she  had  a  tame 
eagle ;  she  had  an  old  horse  also,  who  dragged  the  driftwood 
across  the  sand  on  a  sledge,  and  this  old  horse  seemed  like  a 
giant  horse  always,  outlined  as  he  was  against  the  flat  bar  and 
the  sky.  She  went  out  at  dawn,  and  she  went  out  at  sunset, 
but  during  the  middle  of  the  burning  day  she  sat  at  home  and 
polished  sea-beans,  for  which  she  obtained  untold  sums  ;  she 
was  very  tall,  she  was  very  yellow,  and  she  had  but  one  eye. 
These  items,  one  by  one,  had  been  dropped  by  Felipa  at  vari- 
ous times,  and  it  was  with  curiosity  that  I  gazed  upon  the 
original  Miguel,  the  possessor  of  this  remarkable  spouse.  He 
was  a  grave-eyed,  yellow  man,  who  said  little  and  thought 
less,  applying  cut  bono  ?  to  mental  much  as  the  city  man  ap- 
plies it  to  bodily  exertion,  and  therefore  achieving,  I  think,  a 


206  FELIPA. 

finer  degree  of  inanition.  The  tame  eagle,  the  pelicans,  were 
nothing  to  him  ;  and,  when  I  saw  his  lethargic,  gentle  counte- 
nance, my  own  curiosity  about  them  seemed  to  die  away  in 
haze,  as  though  I  had  breathed  in  an  invisible  opiate.  He 
came,  he  went,  and  that  was  all ;  exit  Miguel. 

Felipa  was  constantly  with  us  now.  She  and  Drollo  fol- 
lowed the  three  of  us  wherever  we  went — followed  the  two 
also  whenever  I  staid  behind  to  sketch,  as  I  often  staid,  for 
in  those  days  I  was  trying  to  catch  the  secret  of  the  salt- 
marsh  ;  a  hopeless  effort — I  know  it  now.  "  Stay  with  me, 
Felipa,"  I  said ;  for  it  was  natural  to  suppose  that  the  lovers 
might  like  to  be  alone.  (I  call  them  lovers  for  want  of  a  bet- 
ter name,  but  they  were  more  like  haters  ;  however,  in  such 
cases  it  is  nearly  the  same  thing.)  And  then  Christine,  hear- 
ing this,  would  immediately  call  "  Felipa ! "  and  the  child 
would  dart  after  them,  happy  as  a  bird.  She  wore  her  boy's 
suit  now  all  the  time,  because  the  senora  had  said  she  "  looked 
well  in  it."  What  the  senora  really  said  was,  that  in  boy's 
clothes  she  looked  less  like  a  grasshopper.  But  this  had  been 
translated  as  above  by  Edward  Bowne  when  Felipa  suddenly 
descended  upon  him  one  day  and  demanded  to  be  instantly 
told  what  the  gracious  lady  was  saying  about  her ;  for  she 
seemed  to  know  by  intuition  when  we  spoke  of  her,  although 
we  talked  in  English  and  mentioned  no  names.  When  told, 
her  small  face  beamed,  and  she  kissed  Christine's  hand  joy- 
fully and  bounded  away.  Christine  took  out  her  handkerchief 
and  wiped  the  spot. 

"  Christine,"  I  said,  "  do  you  remember  the  fate  of  the 
proud  girl  who  walked  upon  bread  ?  " 

"  You  think  that  I  may  starve  for  kisses  some  time  ?  " 
said  my  friend,  going  on  with  the  wiping. 

"  Not  while  I  am  alive,"  called  out  Edward  from  behind. 
His  style  of  courtship  was  of  the  sledge-hammer  sort  some- 
times. But  he  did  not  get  much  for  it  on  that  day ;  only  lofty 
tolerance,  which  seemed  to  amuse  him  greatly. 

Edward  played  with  Felipa  very  much  as  if  she  was  a 


FELIPA.  207 

rubber  toy  or  a  little  trapeze  performer.  He  held  her  out  at 
arm's  length  in  mid-air,  he  poised  her  on  his  shoulder,  he 
tossed  her  up  into  the  low  myrtle-trees,  and  dangled  her  by 
her  little  belt  over  the  claret-colored  pools  on  the  barren ;  but 
he  could  not  frighten  her ;  she  only  laughed  and  grew  wilder 
and  wilder,  like  a  squirrel.  "  She  has  muscles  and  nerves  of 
steel,"  he  said  admiringly. 

"  Do  put  her  down  ;  she  is  too  excitable  for  such  games." 
I  said  in  French,  for  Felipa  seemed  to  divine  our  English  now. 
"  See  the  color  she  has." 

For  there  was  a  trail  of  dark  red  over  the  child's  thin  oval 
cheeks  which  made  her  look  unlike  herself.  As  she  caught 
our  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  she  suddenly  stopped  her  climbing 
and  came  and  sat  at  Christine's  feet.  "  Some  day  I  shall  wear 
robes  like  the  senora's,"  she  said,  passing  her  hand  over  the 
soft  fabric  ;  "  and  I  think,"  she  added  after  some  slow  con- 
sideration, "  that  my  face  will  be  like  the  senora's  too." 

Edward  burst  out  laughing.  The  little  creature  stopped 
abruptly  and  scanned  his  face. 

"  Do  not  tease  her,"  I  said. 

Quick  as  a  flash  she  veered  around  upon  me.  "  He  does 
not  tease  me,"  she  said  angrily  in  Spanish ;  "  and,  besides, 
what  if  he  does  ?  I  like  it."  She  looked  at  me  with  gleam- 
ing eyes  and  stamped  her  foot. 

"  What  a  little  tempest !  "  said  Christine. 

Then  Edward,  man-like,  began  to  explain.  "  You  could 
not  look  much  like  this  lady,  Felipa,"  he  said,  "  because  you 
are  so  dark,  you  know." 

"  Am  I  dark?" 

"Very  dark;  but  many  people  are  dark,  of  course;  and 
for  my  part  I  always  liked  dark  eyes,"  said  this  mendacious 
person. 

"  Do  you  like  my  eyes  ?  "  asked  Felipa  anxiously. 

"  Indeed  I  do  :  they  are  like  the  eyes  of  a  dear  little  calf  I 
once  owned  when  I  was  a  boy." 

The  child  was  satisfied,  and  went  back  to  her  place  beside 


zoS  FELIPA. 

Christine.  "Yes,  I  shall  wear  robes  like  this,"  she  said 
dreamily,  drawing  the  flowing  drapery  over  her  knees  clad  in 
the  little  linen  trousers,  and  scanning  the  effect ;  "  they  would 
trail  behind  me — so."  Her  bare  feet  peeped  out  below  the 
hem,  and  again  we  all  laughed,  the  little  brown  toes  looked 
so  comical  coming  out  from  the  silk  and  the  snowy  embroid- 
eries. She  came  down  to  reality  again,  looked  at  us,  looked 
at  herself,  and  for  the  first  time  seemed  to  comprehend  the 
difference.  Then  suddenly  she  threw  herself  down  on  the 
ground  like  a  little  animal,  and  buried  her  head  in  her  arms. 
She  would  not  speak,  she  would  not  look  up :  she  only  re- 
laxed one  arm  a  little  to  take  in  Drollo,  and  then  lay  mo- 
tionless. Drollo  looked  at  us  out  of  one  eye  solemnly  from 
his  uncomfortable  position,  as  much  as  to  say:  "No  use; 
leave  her  to  me."  So  after  a  while  we  went  away  and  left 
them  there. 

That  evening  I  heard  a  low  knock  at  my  door.  "  Come 
in,"  I  said,  and  Felipa  entered.  I  hardly  knew  her.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  flowered  muslin  gown  which  had  probably  be- 
longed to  her  mother,  and  she  wore  her  grandmother's  stock- 
ings and  large  baggy  slippers ;  on  her  mat  of  curly  hair  was 
perched  a  high-crowned,  stiff  white  cap  adorned  with  a  rib- 
bon streamer ;  and  her  lank  little  neck,  coming  out  of  the  big 
gown,  was  decked  with  a  chain  of  large  sea-beans,  like  ex- 
aggerated lockets.  She  carried  a  Cuban  fan  in  her  hand 
which  was  as  large  as  a  parasol,  and  Drollo,  walking  behind, 
fairly  clanked  with  the  chain  of  sea-shells  which  she  had 
wound  around  him  from  head  to  tail.  The  droll  tableau  and 
the  supreme  pride  on  Felipa's  countenance  overcame  me,  and 
I  laughed  aloud.  A  sudden  cloud  of  rage  and  disappoint- 
ment came  over  the  poor  child's  face :  she  threw  her  cap  on 
the  floor  and  stamped  on  it ;  she  tore  off  her  necklace  and 
writhed  herself  out  of  her  big  flowered  gown,  and,  running  to 
Drollo,  nearly  strangled  him  in  her  fierce  efforts  to  drag  off 
his  shell  chains.  Then,  a  half-dressed,  wild  little  phantom, 
she  seized  me  by  the  skirts  and  dragged  me  toward  the  look- 


FELIPA.  209 

ing-glass.  "  You  are  not  pretty  either,"  she  cried.  "  Look  at 
yourself !  look  at  yourself ! " 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  laugh  at  you,  Felipa,"  I  said  gently ; 
"  I  would  not  laugh  at  any  one  ;  and  it  is  true  I  am  not  pretty, 
as  you  say.  I  can  never  be  pretty,  child ;  but,  if  you  will  try 
to  be  more  gentle,  I  could  teach  you  how  to  dress  yourself  so 
that  no  one  would  laugh  at  you  again.  I  could  make  you  a 
little  bright-barred  skirt  and  a  scarlet  bodice  :  you  could  help, 
and  that  would  teach  you  to  sew.  But  a  little  girl  who  wants 
all  this  done  for  her  must  be  quiet  and  good." 

"  J  am  good,"  said  Felipa ;  "  as  good  as  everything." 

The  tears  still  stood  in  her  eyes,  but  her  anger  was  for- 
gotten :  she  improvised  a  sort  of  dance  around  my  room,  fol- 
lowed by  Drollo  dragging  his  twisted  chain,  stepping  on  it 
with  his  big  feet,  and  finally  winding  himself  up  into  a  knot 
around  the  chair-legs. 

"  Couldn't  we  make  Drollo  something  too  ?  dear  old  Drol- 
lo ! "  said  Felipa,  going  to  him  and  squeezing  him  in  an  en- 
thusiastic embrace.  I  used  to  wonder  how  his  poor  ribs 
stood  it :  Felipa  used  him  as  a  safety-valve  for  her  impetuous 
feelings. 

She  kissed  me  good  night,  and  then  asked  for  "  the  other 
lady." 

"  Go  to  bed,  child,"  I  said ;  "  I  will  give  her  your  good 
night." 

"  But  I  want  to  kiss  her  too,"  said  Felipa. 

She  lingered  at  the  door  and  would  not  go ;  she  played 
with  the  latch,  and  made  me  nervous  with  its  clicking ;  at  last 
I  ordered  her  out.  But  on  opening  my  door  half  an  hour 
afterward  there  she  was  sitting  on  the  floor  outside  in  the 
darkness,  she  and  Drollo,  patiently  waiting.  Annoyed,  but 
unable  to  reprove  her,  I  wrapped  the  child  in  my  shawl 
and  carried  her  out  into  the  moonlight,  where  Christine 
and  Edward  were  strolling  to  and  fro  under  the  pines. 
"  She  will  not  go  to  bed,  Christine,  without  kissing  you,"  I 
explained. 


210  FELIPA. 

"  Funny  little  monkey  !  "  said  my  friend,  passively  allow- 
ing the  embrace. 

"  Me  too,"  said  Edward,  bending  down.  Then  I  carried 
my  bundle  back  satisfied. 

The  next  day  Felipa  and  I  in  secret  began  our  labors : 
hers  consisted  in  worrying  me  out  of  my  life  and  spoiling 
material  —  mine  in  keeping  my  temper  and  trying  to  sew. 
The  result,  however,  was  satisfactory,  never  mind  how  we 
got  there.  I  led  Christine  out  one  afternoon:  Edward  fol- 
lowed. "  Do  you  like  tableaux  ?  "  I  said.  "  There  is  one  I 
have  arranged  for  you." 

Felipa  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  low,  square-curbed  Spanish 
well,  and  Drollo  stood  behind  her,  his  great  yellow  body  and 
solemn  head  serving  as  a,  background.  She  wore  a  brown 
petticoat  barred  with  bright  colors,  and  a  little  scarlet  bodice 
fitting  her  slender  waist  closely ;  a  chemisette  of  soft  cream- 
color  with  loose  sleeves  covered  her  neck  and  arms,  and  set 
off  the  dark  hues  of  her  cheeks  and  eyes ;  and  around  her 
curly  hair  a  red  scarf  was  twisted,  its  fringed  edges  forming 
a  drapery  at  the  back  of  the  head,  which,  more  than  anything 
else,  seemed  to  bring  out  the  latent  character  of  her  face. 
Brown  moccasins,  red  stockings,  and  a  quantity  of  bright 
beads  completed  her  costume. 

"  By  Jove ! "  cried  Edward,  "  the  little  thing  is  almost 
pretty." 

Felipa  understood  this,  and  a  great  light  came  into  her 
face  :  forgetting  her  pose,  she  bounded  forward  to  Christine's 
side.  "  I  am  pretty,  then  ?  "  she  said  with  exultation ;  "  I 
am  pretty,  then,  after  all  ?  For  now  you  yourself  have  said 
it — have  said  it." 

"  No,  Felipa,"  I  interposed,  "  the  gentleman  said  it."  For 
the  child  had  a  curious  habit  of  confounding  the  two  iden- 
tities which  puzzled  me  then  as  now.  But  this  afternoon, 
this  happy  afternoon,  she  was  content,  for  she  was  allowed  to 
sit  at  Christine's  feet  and  look  up  into  her  fair  face  unmolest- 
ed. I  was  forgotten,  as  usual. 


FELIPA.  211 

"  It  is  always  so,"  I  said  to  myself.  But  cynicism,  as  Mr. 
Aldrich  says,  is  a  small  brass  field-piece  that  eventually  bursts 
and  kills  the  artilleryman.  I  knew  this,  having  been  blown 
up  myself  more  than  once ;  so  I  went  back  to  my  painting 
and  forgot  the  world.  Our  world  down  there  on  the  edge  of 
the  salt-marsh,  however,  was  a  small  one  :  when  two  persons 
went  out  of  it  there  was  a  vacuum. 

One  morning  Felipa  came  sadly  to  my  side.  "  They  have 
gone  away,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  child." 

"  Down  to  the  beach  to  spend  all  the  day." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  And  without  me  ! '.' 

This  was  the  climax.  I  looked  up.  Her  eyes  were  dry, 
but  there  was  a  hollow  look  of  disappointment  in  her  face 
that  made  her  seem  old  ;  it  was  as  though  for  an  instant  you 
caught  what  her  old-woman  face  would  be  half  a  century  on. 

"  Why  did  they  not  take  me  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  am  pretty 
now  :  she  herself  said  it." 

"  They  can  not  always  take  you,  Felipa,"  I  replied,  giving 
up  the  point  as  to  who  had  said  it. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  am  pretty  now  :  she  herself  said  it,"  per- 
sisted the  child.  "  In  these  clothes,  you  know :  she  herself 
said  it.  The  clothes  of  the  son  of  Pedro  you  will  never  see 
more :  they  are  burned." 

"  Burned  ?  " 

"  Yes,  burned,"  replied  Felipa  composedly.  "  I  carried 
them  out  on  the  barren  and  burned  them.  Drollo  singed  his 
paw.  They  burned  quite  nicely.  But  they  are  gone,  and  I 
am  pretty  now,  and  yet  they  did  not  take  me  !  What  shall  I 
do  ?  " 

"  Take  these  colors  and  make  me  a  picture,"  I  suggested. 
Generally,  this  was  a  prized  privilege,  but  to-day  it  did  not 
attract ;  she  turned  away,  and  a  few  moments  after  I  saw  her 
going  down  to  the  end  of  the  plank-walk,  where  she  stood 
gazing  wistfully  toward  the  ocean.  There  she  staid  all  day, 


212  FEU  PA. 

going  into  camp  with  Drollo,  and  refusing  to  come  to  dinner 
in  spite  of  old  Dominga's  calls  and  beckonings.  At  last  the 
patient  old  grandmother  went  down  herself  to  the  end  of  the 
long  walk  where  they  were,  with  some  bread  and  venison  on 
a  plate.  Felipa  ate  but  little,  but  Drollo,  after  waiting  politely 
until  she  had  finished,  devoured  everything  that  was  left  in 
his  calmly  hungry  way,  and  then  sat  back  on  his  haunches 
with  one  paw  on  the  plate,  as  though  for  the  sake  of  memory. 
Drollo 's  hunger  was  of  the  chronic  kind  ;  it  seemed  impos- 
sible either  to  assuage  it  or  to  fill  him.  There  was  a  gaunt 
leanness  about  him  which  I  am  satisfied  no  amount  of  food 
could  ever  fatten.  I  think  he  knew  it  too,  and  that  accounted 
for  his  resignation.  At  length,  just  before  sunset,  the  boat 
returned,  floating  up  the  marsh  with  the  tide,  old  Bartolo 
steering  and  managing  the  brown  sails.  Felipa  sprang  up 
joyfully  ;  I  thought  she  would  spring  into  the  boat  in  her 
eagerness.  What  did  she  receive  for  her  long  vigil  ?  A  short 
word  or  two ;  that  was  all.  Christine  and  Edward  had  quar- 
reled. 

How  do  lovers  quarrel  ordinarily  ?  But  I  should  not  ask 
that,  for  these  were  no  ordinary  lovers  :  they  were  extraor- 
dinary. 

"  You  should  not  submit  to  her  caprices  so  readily,"  I  said 
the  next  day  while  strolling  on  the  barren  with  Edward.  (He 
was  not  so  much  cast  down,  however,  as  he  might  have 
been.) 

"  I  adore  the  very  ground  her  foot  touches,  Kitty." 

"  I  know  it.     But  how  will  it  end  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you :  some  of  these  days  I  shall  win  her,  and 
then — she  will  adore  me." 

Here  Felipa  came  running  after  us,  and  Edward  immedi- 
ately challenged  her  to  a  race :  a  game  of  romps  began.  If 
Christine  had  been  looking  from  her  window  she  might  have 
thought  he  was  not  especially  disconsolate  over  her  absence ; 
but  she  was  not  looking.  She  was  never  looking  out  of  any- 
thing or  for  anybody.  She  was  always  serenely  content  where 


FELIPA. 


213 


she  was.  Edward  and  Felipa  strayed  off  among  the  pine- 
trees,  and  gradually  I  lost  sight  of  them.  But  as  I  sat  sketch- 
ing an  hour  afterward  Edward  came  into  view,  carrying  the 
child  in  his  arms.  I  hurried  to  meet  them. 

"  I  shall  never  forgive  myself,"  he  said  ;  "the  little  thing 
has  fallen  and  injured  her  foot  badly,  I  fear." 

"  I  do  not  care  at  all,"  said  Felipa ;  "  I  like  to  have  it  hurt. 
It  is  my  foot,  isn't  it  ?  " 

These  remarks  she  threw  at  me  defiantly,  as  though  I  had 
laid  claim  to  the  member  in  question.  I  could  not  help 
laughing. 

"  The  other  lady  will  not  laugh,"  said  the  child  proudly. 
And  in  truth  Christine,  most  unexpectedly,  took  up  the  role 
of  nurse.  She  carried  Felipa  to  her  own  room — for  we  each 
had  a  little  cell  opening  out  of  the  main  apartment — and  as 
white-robed  Charity  she  shone  with  new  radiance,  "  Shone  " 
is  the  proper  word ;  for  through  the  open  door  of  the  dim 
cell,  with  the  dark  little  face  of  Felipa  on  her  shoulder,  her 
white  robe  and  skin  seemed  fairly  to  shine,  as  white  lilies 
shine  on  a  dark  night.  The  old  grandmother  left  the  child  in 
our  care  and  watched  our  proceedings  wistfully,  very  much  as 
a  dog  watches  the  human  hands  that  extract  the  thorn  from 
the  swollen  foot  of  her  puppy.  She  was  grateful  and  asked 
no  questions ;  in  fact,  thought  was  not  one  of  her  mental 
processes.  She  did  not  think  much  ;  she  felt.  As  for  Felipa, 
the  child  lived  in  rapture  during  those  days  in  spite  of  her 
suffering.  She  scarcely  slept  at  all — she  was  too  happy :  I 
heard  her  voice  rippling  on  through  the  night,  and  Christine's 
low  replies.  She  adored  her  beautiful  nurse. 

The  fourth  day  came :  Edward  Bowne  walked  into  the 
cell.  "  Go  out  and  breathe  the  fresh  air  for  an  hour  or  two," 
he  said  in  the  tone  more  of  a  command  than  a  request. 

"  The  child  will  never  consent,"  replied  Christine  sweetly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  will ;  I  will  stay  with  her,"  said  the  young 
man,  lifting  the  feverish  little  head  on  his  arm  and  passing  his 
hand  softly  over  the  bright  eyes. 


214  FELIPA. 

"  Felipa,  do  you  not  want  me  ?  "  said  Christine,  bending 
down. 

"  He  stays  ;  it  is  all  the  same,"  murmured  the  child. 

"  So  it  is. — Go,  Christine,"  said  Edward  with  a  little  smile 
of  triumph. 

Without  a  word  Christine  left  the  cell.  But  she  did  not 
go  to  walk ;  she  came  to  my  room,  and,  throwing  herself  on 
my  bed,  fell  in  a  moment  into  a  deep  sleep,  the  reaction  after 
her  three  nights  of  wakefulness.  When  she  awoke  it  was 
long  after  dark,  and  I  had  relieved  Edward  in  his  watch. 

"  You  will  have  to  give  it  up,"  he  said  as  our  lily  came 
forth  at  last  with  sleep-flushed  cheeks  and  starry  eyes  shielded 
from  the  light.  "  The  spell  is  broken ;  we  have  all  been 
taking  care  of  Felipa,  and  she  likes  one  as  well  as  the  other." 

Which  was  not  true,  in  my  case  at  least,  since  Felipa  had 
openly  derided  my  small  strength  when  I  lifted  her,  and  beat 
off  the  sponge  with  which  I  attempted  to  bathe  her  hot  face, 
"  They  "  used  no  sponges,  she  said,  only  their  nice  cool  hands  ; 
and  she  wished  "  they  "  would  come  and  take  care  of  her  again. 
But  Christine  had  resigned  in  toto.  If  Felipa  did  not  prefer 
her  to  all  others,  then  Felipa  should  not  have  her ;  she  was 
not  a  common  nurse.  And  indeed  she  was  not.  Her  fair 
face,  ideal  grace,  cooing  voice,  and  the  strength  of  her  long 
arms  and  flexible  hands,  were  like  magic  to  the  sick,  and — 
distraction  to  the  well ;  the  well  in  this  case  being  Edward 
Bowne  looking  in  at  the  door. 

"  You  love  them  very  much,  do  you  not,  Felipa  ?  "  I  said 
one  day  when  the  child  was  sitting  up  for  the  first  time  in  a 
cushioned  chair. 

"  Ah,  yes ;  it  is  so  strong  when  they  carry  me,"  she  re- 
plied. But  it  was  Edward  who  carried  her. 

"  He  is  very  strong,"  I  said. 

"  Yes ;  and  their  long  soft  hair,  with  the  smell  of  roses  in 
it  too,"  said  Felipa  dreamily.  But  the  hair  was  Christine's. 

"  I  shall  love  them  for  ever,  and  they  will  love  me  for 
ever,"  continued  the  child.  "Drollo  too."  She  patted  the 


FELIPA.  215 

dog's  head  as  she  spoke,  and  then  concluded  to  kiss  him  on 
his  little  inch  of  forehead ;  next  she  offered  him  all  her  medi- 
cines and  lotions  in  turn,  and  he  smelled  at  them  grimly. 
"  He  likes  to  know  what  I  am  taking,"  she  explained. 

I  went  on :  "  You  love  them,  Felipa,  and  they  are  fond  of 
you.  They  will  always  remember  you,  no  doubt." 

"  Remember ! "  cried  Felipa,  starting  up  from  her  cushions 
like  a  Jack-in-the  box.  "  They  are  not  going  away  ?  Never ! 
never ! " 

"  But  of  course  they  must  go  some  time,  for — " 

But  Felipa  was  gone.  Before  I  could  divine  her  intent 
she  had  flung  herself  out  of  her  chair  down  on  the  floor,  and 
was  crawling  on  her  hands  and  knees  toward  the  outer  room. 
I  ran  after  her,  but  she  reached  the  door  before  me,  and, 
dragging  her  bandaged  foot  behind  her,  drew  herself  toward 
Christine.  "  You  are  not  going  away !  You  are  not !  you  are 
not !  "  she  sobbed,  clinging  to  her  skirts. 

Christine  was  reading  tranquilly;  Edward  stood  at  the 
outer  door  mending  his  fishing-tackle.  The  coolness  between 
them  remained,  unwarmed  by  so  much  as  a  breath.  "  Run 
away,  child  ;  you  disturb  me,"  said  Christine,  turning  over  a 
leaf.  She  did  not  even  look  at  the  pathetic  little  bundle  at  her 
feet.  Pathetic  little  bundles  must  be  taught  some  time  what 
ingratitude  deserves. 

"  How  can  she  run,  lame  as  she  is  ?  "  said  Edward  from 
the  doorway. 

"  You  are  not  going  away,  are  you  ?  Tell  me  you  are 
not,"  sobbed  Felipa  in  a  passion  of  tears,  beating  on  the 
floor  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  clinging  to  Chris- 
tine. 

"  I  am  not  going,"  said  Edward.  "  Do  not  sob  so,  you 
poor  little  thing  !  " 

She  crawled  to  him,  and  he  took  her  up  in  his  arms  and 
soothed  her  into  stillness  again ;  then  he  carried  her  out  on 
the  barren  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 

"  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing  how  that  child  confounds 


216  FELIPA. 

you  two,"  I  said.  "  It  is  a  case  of  color-blindness,  as  it  were 
— supposing  you  two  were  colors." 

"  Which  we  are  not,"  replied  Christine  carelessly.  "  Do 
not  stray  off  into  mysticism,  Catherine." 

"  It  is  not  mysticism ;  it  is  a  study  of  character — " 

"  Where  there  is  no  character,"  replied  my  friend. 

I  gave  it  up,  but  I  said  to  myself :  "  Fate,  in  the  next 
world  make  me  one  of  those  long,  lithe,  light-haired  women, 
will  you  ?  I  want  to  see  how  it  feels." 

Felipa's  foot  was  well  again,  and  spring  had  come.  Soon 
we  must  leave  our  lodge  on  the  edge  of  the  pine-barren,  our 
outlook  over  the  salt-marsh,  with  the  river  sweeping  up  twice  a 
day,  bringing  in  the  briny  odors  of  the  ocean ;  soon  we  should 
see  no  more  the  eagles  far  above  us  or  hear  the  night-cry  of 
the  great  owls,  and  we  must  go  without  the  little  fairy  flowers 
of  the  barren,  so  small  that  a  hundred  of  them  scarcely  made 
a  tangible  bouquet,  yet  what  beauty !  what  sweetness !  In 
my  portfolio  were  sketches  and  studies  of  the  salt-marsh,  and 
in  my  heart  were  hopes.  Somebody  says  somewhere  :  "  Hope 
is  more  than  a  blessing ;  it  is  a  duty  and  a  virtue."  But  I  fail 
to  appreciate  preserved  hope — hope  put  up  in  cans  and  served 
out  in  seasons  of  depression.  I  like  it  fresh  from  the  tree. 
And  so  when  I  hope  it  is  hope,  and  not  that  well-dried,  monot- 
onous cheerfulness  which  makes  one  long  to  throw  the  per- 
sistent smilers  out  of  the  window.  Felipa  danced  no  more 
on  the  barrens  ;  her  illness  had  toned  her  down ;  she  seemed 
content  to  sit  at  our  feet  while  we  talked,  looking  up  dreamily 
into  our  faces,  but  no  longer  eagerly  endeavoring  to  compre- 
hend. We  were  there  ;  that  was  enough. 

"  She  is  growing  like  a  reed,"  I  said  ;  "  her  illness  has  left 
her  weak." 

"  -Minded,"  suggested  Christine. 

At  this  moment  Felipa  stroked  the  lady's  white  hand  ten- 
derly and  laid  her  brown  cheek  against  it. 

"  Do  you  not  feel  reproached  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Why  ?    Must  we  give  our  love  to  whoever  loves  us  ?    A 


FELIPA. 


217 


fine  parcel  of  paupers  we  should  all  be,  wasting  our  inheri- 
tance in  pitiful  small  change  !  Shall  I  give  a  thousand  beg- 
gars a  half  hour's  happiness,  or  shall  I  make  one  soul  rich 
his  whole  life  long  ?  " 

"  The  latter,"  remarked  Edward,  who  had  come  up  unob- 
served. 

They  gazed  at  each  other  unflinchingly.  They  had  come 
to  open  battle  during  those  last  days,  and  I  knew  that  the  end 
was  near.  Their  words  had  been  cold  as  ice,  cutting  as  steel, 
and  I  said  to  myself,  "  At  any  moment."  There  would  be  a 
deadly  struggle,  and  then  Christine  would  yield.  Even  I  com- 
prehended something  of  what  that  yielding  would  be. 

"  Why  do  they  hate  each  other  so  ?  "  Felipa  said  to  me 
sadly. 

"  Do  they  hate  each  other?  " 

"  Yes,  for  I  feel  it  here,"  she  answered,  touching  her  breast 
with  a  dramatic  little  gesture. 

"  Nonsense  !  Go  and  play  with  your  doll,  child."  For  I 
had  made  her  a  respectable,  orderly  doll  to  take  the  place  of 
the  ungainly  fetich  out  on  the  barren. 

Felipa  gave  me  a  look  and  walked  away.  A  moment 
afterward  she  brought  the  doll  out  of  the  house  before  my 
very  eyes,  and,  going  down  to  the  end  of  the  dock,  deliber- 
ately threw  it  into  the  water ;  the  tide  was  flowing  out,  and 
away  went  my  toy-woman  out  of  sight,  out  to  sea. 

"  Well ! "  I  said  to  myself.     "  What  next  ?  " 

I  had  not  told  Felipa  we  were  going ;  I  thought  it  best  to 
let  it  take  her  by  surprise.  I  had  various  small  articles  of 
finery  ready  as  farewell  gifts,  which  should  act  as  sponges  to 
absorb  her  tears.  But  Fate  took  the  whole  matter  out  of  my 
hands.  This  is  how  it  happened  :  One  evening  in  the  jas- 
mine arbor,  in  the  fragrant  darkness  of  the  warm  spring  night, 
the  end  came ;  Christine  was  won.  She  glided  in  like  a  wraith, 
and  I,  divining  at  once  what  had  happened,  followed  her  into 
her  little  room,  where  I  found  her  lying  on  her  bed,  her  hands 
clasped  on  her  breast,  her  eyes  open  and  veiled  in  soft  shad- 
10 


218  FELIPA. 

ows,  her  white  robe  drenched  with  dew.  I  kissed  her  fondly 
— I  never  could  help  loving  her  then  or  now — and  next  I  went 
out  to  find  Edward.  He  had  been  kind  to  me  all  my  poor  gray 
life ;  should  I  not  go  to  him  now  ?  He  was  still  in  the  arbor, 
and  I  sat  down  by  his  side  quietly ;  I  knew  that  the  words 
would  come  in  time.  They  came ;  what  a  flood  !  English 
was  not  enough  for  him.  He  poured  forth  his  love  in  the 
rich-voweled  Spanish  tongue  also ;  it  has  sounded  doubly 
sweet  to  me  ever  since. 

"  Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver  ? 
Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 
Or  have  smelt  the  bud  o'  the  brier  ? 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 
Or  ha'  tasted  the  bag  o'  the  bee  ? 
Oh  so  white,  oh  so  soft,  oh  so  sweet  is  she  ! " 

said  the  young  lover ;  and  I,  listening  there  in  the  dark  fra- 
grant night,  with  the  dew  heavy  upon  me,  felt  glad  that  the  old 
simple-hearted  love  was  not  entirely  gone  from  our  tired  me- 
tallic world. 

It  was  late  when  we  returned  to  the  house.  After  reach- 
ing my  room  I  found  that  I  had  left  my  cloak  in  the  arbor. 
It  was  a  strong  fabric ;  the  dew  could  not  hurt  it,  but  it  could 
hurt  my  sketching  materials  and  various  trifles  in  the  wide  in- 
side pockets — objets  de  luxe  to  me,  souvenirs  of  happy  times, 
little  artistic  properties  that  I  hang  on  the  walls  of  my  poor 
studio  when  in  the  city.  I  went  softly  out  into  the  darkness 
again  and  sought  the  arbor ;  groping  on  the  ground  I  found, 
not  the  cloak,  but — Felipa !  She  was  crouched  under  the 
foliage,  face  downward ;  she  would  not  move  or  answer. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  child  ?  "  I  said,  but  she  would  not 
speak.  I  tried  to  draw  her  from  her  lair,  but  she  tangled  her- 
self stubbornly  still  farther  among  the  thorny  vines,  and  I 
could  not  move  her.  I  touched  her  neck ;  it  was  cold. 
Frightened,  I  ran  back  to  the  house  for  a  candle. 

"  Go  away,"  she  said  in  a  low  hoarse  voice  when  I  flashed 


FELIPA.  219 

the  light  over  her.  "  I  know  all,  and  I  am  going  to  die.  I 
have  eaten  the  poison  things  in  your  box,  and  just  now  a 
snake  came  on  my  neck  and  I  let  him.  He  has  bitten  me, 
and  I  am  glad.  Go  away  ;  I  am  going  to  die." 

I  looked  around  ;  there  was  my  color-case  rifled  and  emp- 
ty, and  the  other  articles  were  scattered  on  the  ground. 
"  Good  Heavens,  child  ! "  I  cried,  "  what  have  you  eaten  ?  " 

"  Enough,"  replied  Felipa  gloomily.  "  I  knew  they  were 
poisons  ;  you  told  me  so.  And  I  let  the  snake  stay." 

By  this  time  the  household,  aroused  by  my  hurried  exit 
with  the  candle,  came  toward  the  arbor.  The  moment  Ed- 
ward appeared  Felipa  rolled  herself  up  like  a  hedgehog  again 
and  refused  to  speak.  But  the  old  grandmother  knelt  down 
and  drew  the  little  crouching  figure  into  her  arms  with  gentle 
tenderness,  smoothing  its  hair  and  murmuring  loving  words 
in  her  soft  dialect. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Edward  ;  but  even  then  his  eyes  were 
devouring  Christine,  who  stood  in  the  dark  vine-wreathed 
doorway  like  a  picture  in  a  frame.  I  explained. 

Christine  smiled.  "Jealousy,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  am  not  surprised." 

But  at  the  first  sound  of  her  voice  Felipa  had  started  up, 
and,  wrenching  herself  free  from  old  Dominga's  arms,  threw 
herself  at  Christine's  feet.  "  Look  at  me  so,"  she  cried — "  me 
too  ;  do  not  look  at  him.  He  has  forgotten  poor  Felipa  ;  he 
does  not  love  her  any  more.  But  you  do  not  forget,  senora ; 
you  love  me— -you  love  me.  Say  you  do,  or  I  shall  die ! " 

We  were  all  shocked  by  the  pallor  and  the  wild,  hungry 
look  of  her  uplifted  face.  Edward  bent  down  and  tried  to 
lift  her  in  his  arms ;  but  when  she  saw  him  a  sudden  fierce- 
ness came  into  her  eyes ;  they  shot  out  yellow  light  and  seemed 
to  narrow  to  a  point  of  flame.  Before  we  knew  it  she  had 
turned,  seized  something,  and  plunged  it  into  his  encircling 
arm.  It  was  my  little  Venetian  dagger. 

We  sprang  forward ;  our  dresses  were  spotted  with  the 
fast-flowing  blood  ;  but  Edward  did  not  relax  his  hold  on  the 


220  FELIPA. 

writhing,  wild  little  body  he  held  until  it  lay  exhausted  in  his 
arms.  "  I  am  glad  I  did  it,"  said  the  child,  looking  up  into 
his  face  with  her  inflexible  eyes.  "  Put  me  down — put  me 
down,  I  say,  by  the  gracious  senora,  that  I  may  die  with  the 
trailing  of  her  white  robe  over  me."  And  the  old  grand- 
mother with  trembling  hands  received  her  and  laid  her  down 
mutely  at  Christine's  feet. 

Ah,  well !  Felipa  did  'not  die.  The  poisons  racked  but 
did  not  kill  her,  and  the  snake  must  have  spared  the  little  thin 
brown  neck  so  despairingly  offered  to  him.  We  went  away ; 
there  was  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to  go  away  as  quickly  as 
possible  and  leave  her  to  her  kind.  To  the  silent  old  granc^ 
father  I  said :  "  It  will  pass  ;  she  is  but  a  child." 

"  She  is  nearly  twelve,  senora.  Her  mother  was  married 
at  thirteen." 

"  But  she  loved  them  both  alike,  Bartolo.  It  is  nothing  ; 
she  does  not  know." 

"  You  are  right,  lady ;  she  does  not  know,"  replied  the  old 
man  slowly ;  "  but  /  know.  It  was  two  loves,  and  the  strong- 
er thrust  the  knife." 


"B  RO: 


To  him  that  hath,  we  are  told, 
Shall  be  given.    Yes,  by  the  Cross  ! 
To  the  rich  man  Fate  sends  gold, 
To  the  poor  man  loss  on  loss. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


Two  houses,  a  saw- mill,  and  a  tide-water  marsh,  with  a 
railroad-track  crossing  it  from  northeast  to  southwest;  on 
the  other  side  the  sea.  One  of  the  houses  was  near  the 
drawbridge,  and  there  the  keeper  lived,  old  Mr.  Vickery. 
Not  at  all  despised  was  old  Mr.  Vickery  on  account  of  his 
lowly  occupation :  the  Vickerys  had  always  lived  on  Vickery 
Island,  and,  although  they  were  poor  now,  they  had  once 
been  rich,  and  their  name  was  still  as  well  known  as  the  sun 
in  Port  Wilbarger,  and  all  Wilbarger  district.  Fine  sea-island 
cotton  was  theirs  once,  and  black  hands  to  sow  and  gather 
it ;  salt-air  made  the  old  house  pleasant.  The  air  was  still 
there,  but  not  the  cotton  or  the  hands ;  and,  when  a  keeper 
was  wanted  for  the  drawbridge  of  the  new  railroad,  what 
more  natural  than  that  one  should  be  selected  who  lived  on 
the  spot  rather  than  a  resident  of  Port  Wilbarger,  two  miles 
away  ? 

The  other  house  was  on  Wilbarger  Island,  at  the  edge  of 
the  town,  and,  in  itself  uninteresting  and  unimportant,  was 
yet  accepted,  like  the  plain  member  of  a  handsome  family, 
because  of  its  associations ;  for  here  lived  Mrs.  Manning  and 
her  daughter  Marion. 

The  saw-mill  was  on  the  one  point  of  solid  mainland 
which  ran  down  into  the  water  cleanly  and  boldly,  without 


222  "BRO." 

any  fringe  of  marsh ;  the  river-channel  was  narrow  here,  and 
a  row-boat  brought  the  saw-miller  across  to  the  Manning 
cottage  opposite  three  times  each  day.  His  name  was 
Cranch,  Ambrose  Cranch,  but  everybody  called  him  "  Bro." 
He  took  his  meals  at  the  cottage,  and  had  taken  them  there 
for  years.  New-comers  at  Wilbarger,  and  those  persons  who 
never  have  anything  straight  in  their  minds,  supposed  he  was 
a  relative;  but  he  was  not — only  a  friend.  Mrs.  Manning 
was  a  widow,  fat,  inefficient,  and  amiable.  Her  daughter 
Marion  was  a  slender,  erect  young  person  of  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  with  straight  eyebrows,  gray  eyes,  a  clearly  cut, 
delicate  profile,  and  the  calmness  of  perfect  but  unobtrusive 
health.  She  was  often  spoken  of  as  an  unmoved  sort  of  girl, 
and  certainly  there  were  few  surface-ripples ;  but  there  is  a 
proverb  about  still  waters  which  sometimes  came  to  the  minds 
of  those  who  noticed  physiognomy  when  they  looked  at  her, 
although  it  is  but  fair  to  add  that  those  who  noticed  anything 
in  particular  were  rare  in  Wilbarger,  where  people  were  either 
too  indolent  or  too  good-natured  to  make  those  conscientious 
studies  of  their  neighbors  which  are  demanded  by  the  code 
of  morals  prevailing  on  the  coast  farther  north. 

Port  Wilbarger  was  a  very  small  seaport,  situated  on  the 
inland  side  of  a  narrow  island  ;  the  coastwise  steamers  going 
north  and  south  touched  there,  coming  in  around  the  water- 
corner,  passing  the  Old  Town,  the  mile-long  foot-bridge,  and 
stopping  at  the  New  Town  for  a  few  moments  ;  then  back- 
ing around  with  floundering  and  splashing,  and  going  away 
again.  The  small  inside  steamers,  which  came  down  from 
the  last  city  in  the  line  of  sea-cities  south  of  New  York  by 
an  anomalous  route  advertised  as  "  strictly  inland  all  the  way," 
also  touched  there,  as  if  to  take  a  free  breath  before  plunging 
again  into  the  narrow,  grassy  channels,  and  turning  curves 
by  the  process  of  climbing  the  bank  with  the  bow  and  letting 
the  stern  swing  round,  while  men  with  poles  pushed  off  again. 
It  was  the  channel  of  this  inside  route  which  the  railroad- 
drawbridge  crossed  in  the  midst  of  a  broad,  sea-green  prairie 


JBRO." 


223 


below  the  town.  As  there  was  but  one  locomotive,  and,  when 
it  had  gone  down  the  road  in  the  morning,  nothing  could 
cross  again  until  it  came  back  at  night,  one  would  suppose 
that  the  keeper  might  have  left  the  bridge  turned  for  the 
steamers  all  day.  But  no:  the  superintendent  was  a  man 
of  spirit,  and  conducted  his  railroad  on  the  principle  of 
what  it  should  be  rather  than  what  it  was.  He  had  a  hand- 
car of  his  own,  and  came  rolling  along  the  track  at  all  hours, 
sitting  with  dignity  in  an  arm-chair  while  two  red-shirted  ne- 
groes worked  at  the  crank.  There  were  several  drawbridges 
on  his  route,  and  it  was  his  pleasure  that  they  should  all  be 
exactly  in  place,  save  when  a  steamer  was  actually  passing 
through ;  he  would  not  even  allow  the  keepers  to  turn  the 
bridges  a  moment  before  it  was  necessary,  and  timed  himself 
sometimes  so  as  to  pass  over  on  his  hand-car  when  the  bow 
of  the  incoming  boat  was  not  ten  yards  distant. 

But,  even  with  its  steamers,  its  railroad,  and  railroad  su- 
perintendent of  the  spirit  above  described,  Port  Wilbarger 
was  but  a  sleepy,  half-alive  little  town.  Over  toward  the  sea 
it  had  a  lighthouse  and  a  broad,  hard,  silver-white  beach, 
which  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  a  Northern  village ; 
but  when  a  Northern  visitor  once  exclaimed,  enthusiastically, 
"Why,  I  understand  that  you  can  walk  for  twenty  miles 
down  that  beach ! "  a  Wilbarger  citizen  looked  at  him  slowly, 
and  answered,  "  Yes,  you  can — if  you  want  to."  There  was, 
in  fact,  a  kind  of  cold,  creeping  east  wind,  which  did  not  rise 
high  enough  to  stir  the  tops  of  the  trees  to  and  fro,  but 
which,  nevertheless,  counted  for  a  good  deal  over  on  that 
beach. 

Mrs.  Manning  was  poor ;  but  everybody  was  poor  at 
Wilbarger,  and  nobody  minded  it  much.  Marion  was  the 
housekeeper  and  house-provider,  and  everything  went  on  like 
clock-work.  Marion  was  like  her  father,  it  was  said ;  but 
nobody  remembered  him  very  clearly.  He  was  a  Northerner, 
who  had  come  southward  seeking  health,  and  finding  none. 
But  he  found  Miss  Forsythe  instead,  and  married  her.  How 


224 


"BRO." 


it  happened  that  Ambrose  Cranch,  not  a  relative  but  a  non- 
descript, should  be  living  in  a  household  presided  over  by 
Forsythe  blood,  was  as  follows :  First,  he  had  put  out  years 
before  a  fire  in  Mrs.  Manning's  kitchen  which  would  other- 
wise have  burned  the  wooden  house  to  the  ground  ;  that  be- 
gan the  acquaintance.  Second,  learning  that  her  small  prop- 
erty was  in  danger  of  being  swept  away  entirely,  owing  to 
unpaid  taxes  and  mismanagement,  he  made  a  journey  to  the 
capital  of  the  State  in  her  behalf,  and  succeeded  after  much 
trouble  in  saving  a  part  of  it  for  her.  It  was  pure  kindness 
on  his  part  in  a  time  of  general  distress,  and  from  another 
man  would  have  been  called  remarkable  ;  but  nothing  could 
be  called  remarkable  in  Ambrose  Cranch  :  he  had  never  been 
of  any  consequence  in  Wilbarger  or  his  life.  Mrs.  Manning 
liked  him,  and,  after  a  while,  asked  him  to  come  and  take  his 
meals  at  the  cottage  :  the  saw-mill  was  directly  opposite,  and 
it  would  be  neighborly.  Ambrose,  who  had  always  eaten  his 
dinners  at  the  old  Wilbarger  Hotel,  in  the  dark,  crooked  din- 
ing-room, which  had  an  air  of  mystery  not  borne  out  by  any- 
thing, unless  it  might  be  its  soups,  gladly  accepted,  and  trans- 
ferred his  life  to  the  mainland  point  and  the  cottage  opposite, 
with  the  row-boat  as  a  ferry  between.  He  was  so  inoffensive 
and  willing,  and  so  skillful  with  his  hands,  that  he  was  soon 
as  much  a  part  of  the  household  as  old  Dinah  herself ;  he 
mended  and  repaired,  praised  the  good  dishes,  watered  the 
flowers,  and  was  an  excellent  listener.  It  would  be  amusing 
to  know  how  much  the  fact  of  being,  or  securing,  a  good 
listener  has  to  do  with  our  lives.  Mrs.  Manning,  fond  of 
reminiscence  and  long  narratives  which  were  apt  to  run  off  at 
random,  so  that,  whereas  you  began  with  the  Browns,  you 
ended  with  something  about  the  Smiths,  and  never  heard  the 
Brown  story  at  all,  actually  retained  Ambrose  Cranch  at  her 
table  for  eleven  years  because  he  listened  well.  But  she  did 
not  realize  it;  neither  did  he.  A  simpler,  more  unplotting 
soul  never  existed  than  that  in  the  saw-miller's  body.  A 
word  now  as  to  that  body :  it  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  its 


BRO" 


225 


owner's  life,  and  our  story.  (O  brothers  and  sisters,  if  Justice 
holds  the  balance,  how  handsome  some  of  us  are  going  to  be 
in  the  next  life  !)  Ambrose  Cranch  was  tall  and  thin,  what  is 
called  rawboned;  all  his  joints  were  large  and  prominent, 
from  his  knuckles  to  his  ankles.  He  had  large,  long  feet  and 
hands,  and  large,  long  ears;  his  feet  shambled  when  he 
walked,  his  arms  dangled  from  the  shoulders  like  the  arms  of 
a  wooden  doll,  and  he  had  a  long,  sinewed  throat,  which  no 
cravat  or  collar  could  hide,  though  he  wore  them  up  to  his 
ears.  Not  that  he  did  so  wear  them,  however:  he  had  no 
idea  that  his  throat  was  ugly ;  he  never  thought  about  it  at 
all.  He  had  a  long  face,  small,  mild  blue  eyes,  thin,  lank 
brown  hair,  a  large  mouth,  and  long,  narrow  nose ;  he  was,  also, 
the  most  awkward  man  in  the  world.  Was  there  no  redeem- 
ing point  ?  Hardly.  His  fingers  were  nicely  finished  at  the 
ends,  and  sometimes  he  had  rather  a  sweet  smile.  But  in  the 
contemplation  of  his  joints,  shoulders,  elbows,  wrists,  and 
knuckles,  even  the  student  of  anatomy  hardly  got  as  far  as 
his  finger-ends ;  and  as  to  the  smile,  nobody  saw  it  but  the 
Mannings,  who  did  not  care  about  it.  In  origin  he  was,  as 
before  mentioned,  a  nondescript,  having  come  from  the  up- 
country,  where  Southern  ways  shade  off  into  mountain  rough- 
ness ;  which  again  gives  place  to  the  river-people,  and  they, 
farther  on,  to  the  Hoosiers  and  Buckeyes,  who  are  felicitously 
designated  by  the  expressive  title  of  "Western  Yankees." 
He  had  inherited  the  saw-mill  from  an  uncle,  who  had  tried 
to  make  something  of  it,  failed,  and  died.  Ambrose,  being  a 
patient  man,  and  one  of  smallest  possible  personal  expendi- 
ture, managed  to  live,  and  even  to  save  a  little  money — but 
only  a  little.  He  had  been  there  twelve  years,  and  was  now 
thirty-eight  years  old.  All  this  the  whole  town  of  Wilbarger 
knew,  or  might  have  known ;  it  was  no  secret.  But  the  saw- 
mill had  a  secret  of  its  own,  besides.  Up  stairs,  in  the  back 
part,  was  a  small  room  with  a  lock  on  the  door,  and  windows 
with  red  cloth  nailed  over  them  in  place  of  glass.  Here  Am- 
brose spent  many  moments  of  his  day,  and  all  of  his  even- 


226  'BRO" 

ings,  quite  alone.  His  red  lights  shone  across  the  marsh,  and 
could  be  seen  from  Vickery  Island  and  the  drawbridge ;  but 
they  were  not  visible  on  the  Wilbarger  side,  and  attracted, 
therefore,  no  attention.  However,  it  is  doubtful  whether  they 
would  have  attracted  attention  anyway.  Wilbarger  people 
did  not  throw  away  their  somewhat  rarely  excited  interest 
upon  Ambrose  Cranch,  who  represented  to  them  the  flattest 
commonplace.  They  knew  when  his  logs  came,  they  knew 
the  quantity  and  quality  of  his  boards,  they  saw  him  super- 
intending the  loading  of  the  schooner  that  bore  them  away, 
and  that  was  all.  Even  the  two  negroes  who  worked  in  the 
mill — one  bright,  young,  and  yellow ;  the  other  old,  slow,  and 
black — felt  no  curiosity  about  the  locked  room  and  Cranch's 
absences ;  it  was  but  a  part  of  his  way. 

What  was  in  this  room,  then  ?  Nothing  finished  as  yet, 
save  dreams.  Cranch  had  that  strong  and  singular  bias  of 
mind  which  makes,  whether  successful  or  unsuccessful,  the 
inventor. 

It  was  a  part  of  his  unconsequence  in  every  way  that  all 
persons  called  him  "Bro" — even  his  negro  helpers  at  the 
mill.  When  he  first  came  to  live  with  Mrs.  Manning,  she 
had  tried  hard  to  speak  of  him  as  "  Mr.  Cranch,"  and  had 
taught  her  daughter  to  use  the  title ;  but,  as  time  wore  on, 
she  had  dropped  into  Bro  again,  and  so  had  Marion.  But, 
now  that  Marion  was  twenty-five  and  her  own  mistress,  she 
had  taken  up  the  custom  of  calling  him  "  Ambrose,"  the  only 
person  in  the  whole  of  Wilbarger  who  used,  or  indeed  knew, 
the  name.  This  she  did,  not  on  his  account  at  all,  but  on  her 
own ;  she  disliked  nicknames,  and  did  not  consider  it  digni- 
fied to  use  them.  Cranch  enjoyed  her  "  Ambrose  "  greatly, 
and  felt  an  inward  pride  every  time  she  spoke  it ;  but  he  said 
nothing, 

There  was  a  seminary  at  Wilbarger — a  forlorn,  ill-sup- 
ported institution,  under  the  charge  of  the  Episcopal  Church 
of  the  diocese.  But  the  Episcopal  Church  of  the  diocese 
was,  for  the  time  being,  extremely  poor,  and  its  missions  and 


227 

schools  were  founded  more  in  a  spirit  of  hope  than  in  any 
certainty  of  support ;  with  much  the  same  faith,  indeed,  which 
its  young  deacons  show  when  they  enter  (as  they  all  do  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment)  into  the  responsibilities  of  matri- 
mony. But  in  this  seminary  was,  by  chance,  an  excellent 
though  melancholy-minded  teacher — a  Miss  Drough,  equally 
given  to  tears  and  arithmetic.  Miss  Drough  was  an  adept  at 
figures,  and,  taking  a  fancy  to  Marion  Manning,  she  taught 
her  all  she  knew  up  to  trigonometry,  with  chess  problems  and 
some  astronomy  thrown  in.  Marion  had  no  especial  liking 
for  mathematics  in  the  beginning,  but  her  clear  mind  had  fol- 
lowed her  ardent  teacher  willingly :  at  twenty-five  she  was 
a  skilled  arithmetician,  passably  well  educated  in  ordinary 
branches,  well  read  in  strictly  old-fashioned  literature,  and 
not  very  pious,  because  she  had  never  liked  the  reverend  gen- 
tleman in  charge  of  the  seminary  and  the  small  church — a 
thin  man  who  called  himself  "  a  worm,"  and  always  ate  all 
the  best  bits  of  meat,  pressing,  meanwhile,  with  great  cor- 
diality, the  pale,  watery  sweet-potatoes  upon  the  hungry 
schoolgirls.  She  was  also  exceedingly  contemptuous  in  man- 
ner as  to  anything  approaching  flirtation  with  the  few  cava- 
liers of  Wilbarger.  It  is  rather  hard  to  call  them  cavaliers, 
since  they  no  longer  had  any  good  horses ;  but  they  came 
from  a  race  of  cavaliers,  the  true  "  armed  horsemen "  of 
America,  if  ever  we  had  any.  The  old-time  Southerners 
went  about  on  horseback  much  more  than  on  foot  or  in  car- 
riages ;  and  they  went  armed. 

/'  Bro,  will  you  mend  the  gate-latch  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Manning 
at  the  breakfast-table.  They  did  not  breakfast  early;  Mrs. 
Manning  had  never  been  accustomed  to  early  breakfasts :  the 
work  at  the  saw-mill  began  and  went  on  for  three  hours  be- 
fore the  saw-miller  broke  his  fast.  Bro  mended  the  latch, 
and  then,  after  a  survey  of  the  garden,  went  up  to  the  open 
window  of  the  dining-room  and  said  : 

"Shall  I  water  the  flowers,  Miss  Marion?     They  look 
sadly  this  morning." 


228  "  ERO" 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  Ambrose,"  replied  the  erect  young 
person  within,  who  was  washing  the  cups,  and  the  few  old 
spoons  and  forks  she  called  "  the  silver."  The  flowers  were 
a  link  between  them  ;  they  would  not  grow,  and  everybody 
told  her  they  would  not  save  Bro,  who  believed  in  them  to  the 
last,  and  watched  even  their  dying  struggles  with  unfailing 
hope.  The  trouble  was  that  she  set  her  mind  upon  flowers 
not  suited  to  the  soil ;  she  sent  regularly  for  seeds  and  slips, 
and  would  have  it  that  they  must  grow  whether  they  wished 
to  or  not.  Whatever  their  wishes  were,  floral  intentions  ne- 
cessarily escaping  our  grosser  senses,  one  thing  was  certain — 
grow  they  did  not,  in  spite  of  Bro's  care.  He  now  watered 
the  consumptives  of  the  day  tenderly  ;  he  coaxed  straggling 
branches  and  gently  tied  up  weak  ones,  saw  with  concern 
that  the  latest  balsam  was  gone,  and,  after  looking  at  it  for  a 
while,  thought  it  his  duty  to  tell  its  mistress. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Miss  Marion,"  he  said,  going  to  the  window- 
sill,  "  but  the  pink  balsam  is  dead  again." 

"  What  can  you  mean  by  '  dead  again  '  "  ?  said  a  vexed 
but  clear  voice  within.  "  It  can  not  be  dead  but  once,  of 
course." 

"  We  have  had  a  good  many  balsams,"  replied  Bro  apolo- 
getically, "  and  even  a  good  many  pink  ones,  like  this  ;  I  for- 
get sometimes." 

"  That  is  because  you  have  no  real  love  for  flowers,"  said 
the  irate  young  mistress  from  her  dish-pan  :  she  was  provoked 
at  the  loss  of  the  balsam — it  was  her  last  one. 

Bro,  who  could  not  see  her  from  where  he  stood,  waited  a 
moment  or  two,  shuffled  his  feet  to  and  fro  on  the  sand,  and 
noiselessly  drummed  on  the  sill  with  his  long  fingers ;  then 
he  went  slowly  down  to  the  shore,  where  his  boat  was  drawn 
up,  and  rowed  himself  across  to  the  saw-mill.  He  felt  a  sort 
of  guilt  about  that  pink  balsam,  as  though  he  had  not  per- 
haps taken  enough  care  of  it ;  but,  in  truth,  he  had  watched 
every  hair's-breadth  of  its  limp,  reluctant  growth,  knew  its 
moist  veining  accurately,  and  even  the  habits  and  opinions,  as 


BRO." 


229 


it  were,  of  two  minute  green  inhabitants,  with  six  legs,  of  the 
size,  taken  both  together,  of  a  pin's  point,  who  considered  the 
stalk  quite  a  prairie. 

When  she  was  eighteen  and  nineteen  years  old,  Marion 
Manning  had  refused  several  suitors,  giving  as  a  reason  to 
her  mother  that  they  were  all  detestable  ;  since  then,  she  had 
not  been  troubled  with  suitors  to  refuse.  There  were  girls 
with  more  coloring  and  brighter  eyes  in  Wilbarger,  and  girls 
with  warmer  hearts :  so  said  the  gossips.  And,  certainly, 
the  calm  reserve,  the  incisive  words,  and  clear  gray  eyes  that 
looked  straight  at  you  of  Marion  Manning  were  not  calculated 
to  encourage  the  embarrassed  but  at  the  same  time  decidedly 
favor-conferring  attentions  of  the  youths  of  the  town.  Mrs. 
Manning,  in  the  course  of  the  years  they  had  been  together, 
had  gradually  taken  Bro  as  a  humble  confidant :  he  knew  of 
the  offers  and  refusals ;  he  knew  of  the  succeeding  suitorless 
period  which  Mrs.  Manning,  a  stanch  believer  in  love  and 
romance,  bewailed  as  wasted  time.  "  /  could  never  have  re- 
sisted young  Echols,"  she  said,  "  sitting  there  on  the  door-step 
as  he  used  to,  with  the  sun  shining  on  his  curly  hair.  But 
there !  I  always  had  a  fancy  for  curls."  Bro  received  these 
confidences  with  strict  attention,  as  valuable  items.  But  one 
peculiarity  of  his  mind  was  that  he  never  generalized ;  and 
thus,  for  instance,  instead  of  taking  in  the  fact  that  curly  hair 
plays  a  part  in  winning  a  heart,  he  only  understood  that  Mrs. 
Manning,  for  some  reason  or  other,  liked  kinks  and  twists  in 
the  covering  of  the  head ;  as  some  persons  liked  hempen 
shoestrings,  others  leathern. 

"  But  Miss  Marion  is  happy,"  he  said  once,  when  the  suit- 
orless period  was  two  years  old,  and  the  mother  lament- 
ing. 

"  Yes ;  but  we  can  not  live  our  lives  more  than  once,  Bro, 
and  these  years  will  never  come  back  to  her.  What  keeps 
me  up  through  all  the  privations  I  have  suffered  but  the  mem- 
ory of  the  short  but  happy  time  of  my  own  courtship  and 
marriage  ?  "  Here  Mrs.  Manning  shed  tears.  The  memory 


230 


BRO" 


must,  indeed,  have  been  a  strong  one,  the  unregenerated  hu- 
morist would  have  thought,  to  "  keep  up  "  such  a  weight  as 
hers.  But  Bro  was  not  a  humorist :  that  Mrs.  Manning  was 
fat  was  no  more  to  him  than  that  he  himself  was  lean.  He 
had  the  most  implicit  belief  in  the  romance  of  her  life,  upon 
which  she  often  expatiated  ;  he  knew  all  about  the  first  time 
she  saw  him,  and  how  she  felt ;  he  knew  every  detail  of  the 
courtship.  This  was  only  when  Marion  was  absent,  how- 
ever ;  the  mother,  voluble  as  she  was,  said  but  little  on  that 
subject  when  her  daughter  was  in  the  room. 

"  But  Miss  Marion  is  happy,"  again  said  Bro,  when  the 
suitorless  period  was  now  five  years  old. 

"  No,  she  is  not,"  replied  the  mother  this  time.  "  She  be- 
gins to  feel  that  her  life  is  colorless  and  blank ;  I  can  see  she 
does.  She  is  not  an  ordinary  girl,  and  needlework  and  house- 
keeping do  not  content  her.  If  she  had  an  orphan  asylum  to 
manage,  now,  or  something  of  that  kind —  But,  dear  me ! 
what  would  suit  her  best,  I  do  believe,  would  be  drilling  a 
regiment,"  added  Mrs.  Manning,  her  comfortable  amplitude 
heaving  with  laughter.  "  She  is  as  straight  as  a  ramrod  al- 
ways, for  all  her  delicate,  small  bones.  What  she  would  like 
best  of  all,  I  suppose,  would  be  keeping  accounts ;  she  will 
do  a  sum  now  rather  than  any  kind  of  embroidery,  and  a 
page  of  figures  is  fairly  meat  and  drink  to  her.  That  Miss 
Drough  has,  I  fear,  done  her  more  harm  than  good  :  you  can 
not  make  life  exactly  even,  like  arithmetic,  nor  balance  quan- 
tities, try  as  you  may.  And,  whatever  variety  men  may  suc- 
ceed in  getting,  we  women  have  to  put  up  with  a  pretty 
steady  course  of  subtraction,  I  notice." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  do  not  think  she  is  happy,"  said  Bro 
thoughtfully. 

"  There  you  go  !  "  said  Mrs.  Manning.  "  I  do  not  mean 
that  she  is  exactly  chappy ;  but  you  never  understand 
things,  Bro." 

"I  know  it;  I  have  had  so  little  experience,"  said  the 
other.  But  Bro's  experience,  large  or  small,  was  a  matter  of 


"JBRO."  231 

no  interest  to  Mrs.  Manning,  who  rambled  on  about  her 
daughter. 

"  The  Mannings  were  always  slow  to  develop,  Edward 
used  to  say :  I  sometimes  think  Marion  is  not  older  now  at 
heart  than  most  girls  of  eighteen.  She  has  always  been  more 
like  the  best  scholar,  the  clear-headed  girl  at  the  top  of  the 
class,  than  a  woman  with  a  woman's  feelings.  She  will  be 
bitterly  miserable  if  she  falls  in  love  at  last,  and  all  in  vain. 
An  old  maid  in  love  is  a  desperate  sight." 

"  What  do  you  call  an  old  maid  ?  "  asked  Bro. 

"  Any  unmarried  woman  over — well,  I  used  to  say  twen- 
ty-five, but  Marion  is  that,  and  not  much  faded  yet  —  say 
twenty-eight,"  replied  Mrs.  Manning,  decisively,  having  to 
the  full  the  Southern  ideas  on  the  subject. 

"  Then  Miss  Marion  has  three  years  more  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but,  dear  me  !  there  is  no  one  here  she  will  look 
at.  What  I  am  afraid  of  is,  that,  after  I  am  dead  and  gone, 
poor  Marion,  all  thin  and  peaked  (for  she  does  not  take  after 
me  in  flesh),  with  spectacles  on  her  nose,  and  little  wrinkles 
at  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  will  be  falling  in  love  with  some 
one  who  will  not  care  for  her  at  all.  I  should  say  a  clergy- 
man," pursued  Mrs.  Manning  meditatively,  "  only  Marion 
hates  clergymen ;  a  professor,  then,  or  something  of  the  kind. 
If  I  only  had  money  enough  to  take  her  away  and  give  her  a 
change  !  She  might  see  somebody  then  who  would  not  wind 
his  legs  around  his  chair." 

"  Around  his  chair  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Manning,  beginning  on  another  knitting- 
needle.  "  Have  you  not  noticed  how  all  the  young  men  about 
here  twist  their  feet  around  the  legs  of  their  chairs,  especially 
when  telling  a  long  story  or  at  table  ?  Sometimes  it  is  one 
foot,  sometimes  the  other,  and  sometimes  both,  which  I  ac- 
knowledge is  awkward.  What  pleasure  they  find  in  it  I 
can  not  imagine ;  /  should  think  it  would  be  dislocating. 
Young  Harding,  now,  poor  fellow !  had  almost  no  fault  but 
that." 


232  "BRO." 

"  And  Miss  Marion  dislikes  it  ?  I  hope  7  do  not  do  it 
then,"  said  Bro  simply. 

"  Well,  no,"  replied  Mrs.  Manning.  "  You  see,  your  feet 
are  rather  long,  Bro." 

They  were ;  it  would  have  taken  a  giant's  chair  to  give 
them  space  enough  to  twist. 

So  Bro's  life  went  on  :  the  saw-mill  to  give  him  bread  and 
clothes,  Mrs.  Manning  to  listen  to,  the  flowers  to  water,  and, 
at  every  other  leisure  moment  night  and  day,  his  inventions. 
For  there  were  several,  all  uncompleted  :  a  valve  for  a  steam- 
engine,  an  idea  for  a  self-register,  and,  incidentally,  a  screw. 
He  had  most  confidence  in  the  valve ;  when  completed,  it 
would  regenerate  the  steam-engines  of  the  world.  The  self- 
register  gave  him  more  trouble ;  it  haunted  him,  but  would 
not  come  quite  right.  He  covered  pages  of  paper  with  cal- 
culations concerning  it.  He  had  spent  about  twenty  thousand 
hours,  all  told,  over  that  valve  and  register  during  his  eleven 
years  at  the  saw-mill,  and  had  not  once  been  tired.  He  had 
not  yet  applied  for  patents,  although  the  screw  was  complete. 
That  was  a  trifle:  he  would  wait  for  his  more  important 
works. 

One  day  old  Mr.  Vickery,  having  watched  the  superinten- 
dent roll  safely  past  down  the  road  on  his  way  to  Bridge  No. 
2,  left  his  charge  in  the  care  of  old  Julius  for  the  time  being, 
and  walked  up  the  track  toward  Wilbarger.  It  was  the 
shortest  road  to  the  village — indeed,  the  only  road ;  but  one 
could  go  by  water.  Before  the  days  of  the  railroad,  the 
Vickerys  always  went  by  water,  in  a  wide-cushioned  row- 
boat,  with  four  pairs  of  arms  to  row.  It  was  a  great  day,  of 
course,  when  the  first  locomotive  came  over  Vickery  Marsh  ; 
but  old  Mr.  Vickery  was  lamentably  old-fashioned,  and  pre- 
ferred the  small  days  of  the  past,  with  the  winding,  silver 
channels  and  the  row-boat,  and  the  sense  of  wide  possession 
and  isolation  produced  by  the  treeless,  green  expanse  which 
separated  him  from  the  town.  To-day,  however,  he  did  not 
stop  to  think  of  these  things,  but  hastened  on  as  fast  as  his 


BROr 


233 


short  legs  could  carry  him.  Mrs.  Manning  was  an  old  friend 
of  his  ;  to  her  house  he  was  hurrying. 

"  You  are  both — you  are  both,"  he  gasped,  bursting  into 
the  sitting-room  and  sinking  into  a  chair — "  you  are  both — 
ah,  ugh !  ugh  ! " 

He  choked,  gurgled,  and  turned  from  red  to  purple.  Mrs. 
Manning  seized  a  palm-leaf  fan,  and  fanned  him  vigorously. 

"  Why  did  you  walk  so  fast,  Mr.  Vickery  ?  "  she  said  re- 
proachfully. "  You  know  your  short  breath  can  not  stand  it." 

"  You  would,  too,  Nannie,"  articulated  the  old  man,  "  if — 
\iyour  boy  had  come  home !" 

"  What,  Lawrence  ?  You  do  not  mean  it ! "  she  exclaimed, 
sinking  into  a  chair  in  her  turn,  and  fanning  herself  now.  "  I 
congratulate  you,  Mr.  Vickery ;  I  do,  indeed.  How  long  is  it 
since  you  have  seen  him  ?  " 

"  Thirteen  years ;  thir — teen  years  !  He  was  fifteen  when 
he  went  away,  you  know,"  whispered  the  old  man,  still  giving 
out  but  the  husky  form  of  words  without  any  voice  to  support 
them.  "  Under  age,  but  would  go.  Since  then  he  has  been 
wandering  over  the  ocean  and  all  about,  the  bold  boy ! " 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  Mrs.  Manning;  "how  glad  I  shall  be  to 
see  him !  I  was  very  fond  of  his  mother." 

"  Yes ;  Sally  was  a  sweet  little  woman,  and  Lawrence 
takes  after  his  mother  more  than  after  his  father,  I  see.  My 
son  was  a  true  Vickery;  yes,  a  true  Vickery.  But  what  I 
came  to  say  was,  that  you  and  Marion  must  both  come  over 
to-morrow  and  spend  the  day.  We  must  kill  the  fatted  calf, 
Nannie — indeed  we  must." 

Then,  with  his  first  free  breath,  the  old  man  was  obliged 
to  go,  lest  the  superintendent  should  return  unexpectedly  and 
find  him  absent.  There  was  also  the  fatted  calf  to  be  pro- 
vided :  Julius  must  go  across  to  the  mainland  and  hunt  down 
a  wild  turkey. 

At  dinner  Mrs.  Manning  had  this  great  news  to  tell  her 
listener — two  now,  since  Marion  had  returned. 

"  Who  do  you  think  has  come  home  ?  "  she  said,  enjoying 


234 


BROr 


her  words  as  she  spoke  them.  "  Who  but  old  Mr.  Vickery's 
grandson,  Lawrence,  his  only  living  grandchild !  He  went 
away  thirteen  years  ago,  and  one  of  the  sweetest  boys  I  ever 
knew  he  was  then. — You  remember  him,  Marion." 

"  I  remember  a  boy,"  answered  Marion  briefly.  "  He 
never  would  finish  any  game,  no  matter  what  it  was,  but 
always  wanted  to  try  something  new." 

"  Like  his  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Manning,  heaving  a  reminis- 
cent sigh,  and  then  laughing.  "  Sally  Telfair  used  to  change 
about  the  things  in  her  work-basket  and  on  her  table  every 
day  of  her  life.  Let  me  see — Lawrence  must  be  twenty-eight 
now." 

"  He  has  come  back,  I  suppose,  to  take  care  of  his  grand- 
father in  his  old  age,"  said  Bro,  who  was  eating  his  dinner  in 
large,  slow  mouthfuls,  in  a  manner  which  might  have  been 
called  ruminative  if  ruminating  animals  were  not  generally 
fat. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  replied  Mrs.  Manning,  with  her  com- 
fortable belief  in  everybody's  good  motives. 

When. Marion  and  her  mother  returned  home  the  next 
day  at  dusk  a  third  person  was  with  them  as  they  walked 
along  the  track,  their  figures  outlined  clearly  against  the  orange 
after-glow  in  the  west.  Bro,  who  had  come  across  for  his  tea, 
saw  them,  and  supposed  it  was  young  Vickery.  He  supposed 
correctly.  Young  Vickery  came  in,  staid  to  tea,  and  spent 
the  evening.  Bro,  as  usual,  went  over  to  the  mill.  The  next 
day  young  Vickery  came  again,  and  the  next ;  the  third  day 
the  Mannings  went  over  to  the  island.  Then  it  began  over 
again. 

"  I  do  hope,  Bro,  that  your  dinners  have  been  attended  to 
properly,"  said  Mrs.  Manning,  during  the  second  week  of 
these  visitations. 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly,"  replied  Bro,  who  would  have  eaten 
broiled  rhinoceros  unnoticingly. 

"  You  see  Mr.  Vickery  has  the  old-time  ideas  about  com- 
pany and  visiting  to  celebrate  a  great  occasion,  and  Lawrence's 


BROr 


235 


return  is,  of  course,  that.  It  is  a  perfect  marvel  to  hear  where, 
or  rather  where  not,  that  young  man  has  been." 

"  Where  ?  "  said  Bro,  obediently  asking  the  usual  question 
which  connected  Mrs.  Manning's  narratives,  and  gave  them  a 
reason  for  being. 

"  Everywhere.     All  over  the  wide  world,  I  should  say." 

"  Oh,  no,  mother;  he  was  in  Germany  most  of  the  time," 
said  Marion. 

"  He  saw  the  Alps,  Marion." 

"  The  Bavarian  Alps." 

"  And  he  saw  France." 

"  From  the  banks  of  the  Moselle." 

"  And  Russia,  and  Holland,  and  Bohemia,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Manning.  "  You  will  never  make  me  believe  that  one  can 
see  all  those  countries  from  Germany,  Marion.  Germany  was 
never  of  so  much  importance  in  my  day.  And  to  think,  too, 
that  he  has  lived  in  Bohemia !  I  must  ask  him  about  it.  I 
have  never  understood  where  it  was,  exactly;  but  I  have 
heard  persons  called  Bohemians  who  had  not  a  foreign  look 
at  all." 

"  He  did  not  live  in  Bohemia,  mother." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  did,  child ;  I  am  sure  I  heard  him  say  so." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  Bavaria." 

"  Marion  !  Marion  !  how  can  you  tell  what  I  am  thinking 
of  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Manning  oracularly.  "  There  is  no  rule  of 
arithmetic  that  can  tell  you  that.  But  here  is  Lawrence  him- 
self at  the  door. — You  have  lived  in  Bohemia,  have  you  not  ?  " 
she  asked,  as  the  young  man  entered :  he  came  in  and  out 
now  like  one  of  the  family.  "  Marion  says  you  have  not." 

"  Pray,  don't  give  it  up,  but  stick  to  that  opinion,  Miss 
Marion,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  merry  glint  in  his  eyes. 
Ah !  yes,  young  Vickery  had  wandered,  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it ;  he  used  contractions,  and  such  words  as  "  stick."  Mrs. 
Manning  and  Marion  had  never  said  "  don't "  or  "  can't "  in 
their  lives. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  replied  Marion,  a  slight 


236  "PRO" 

color  rising  in  her  cheeks.  "  It  is  not  a  matter  of  opinion  one 
way  or  the  other,  but  of  fact.  You  either  have  lived  in  Bohe- 
mia, or  you  have  not." 

"  Well,  then,  I  have,"  said  Vickery,  laughing. 

"  There  !  Marion,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Manning  triumphantly. 

Vickery,  overcome  by  mirth,  turned  to  Bro,  as  if  for  re- 
lief ;  Bro  was  at  least  a  man. 

But  Bro  returned  his  gaze  mildly,  comprehending  nothing. 

"  Going  over  to  the  mill  ?  "  said  Vickery.  "  I'll  go  with 
you,  and  have  a  look  about." 

They  went  off  together,  and  Vickery  examined  the  mill 
from  top  to  bottom ;  he  measured  the  logs,  inspected  the  en- 
gine, chaffed  the  negroes,  climbed  out  on  the  roof,  put  his 
head  into  Bro's  cell-like  bedroom,  and  came  at  last  to  the 
locked  door. 

"  What  have  we  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Only  a  little  workshop  of  mine,  which  I  keep  locked," 
replied  Bro. 

"  So  I  see.     But  what's  inside  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  much  consequence — as  yet,"  replied  the  other, 
unable  to  resist  adding  the  adverb. 

"You  must  let  me  in,"  said  Vickery,  shaking  the  door. 
"  I  never  could  abide  a  secret.  Come,  Bro  ;  I  won't  tell.  Let 
me  in,  or  I  shall  climb  up  at  night  and  break  in,"  he  added 
gayly. 

Bro  stoodlooking  at  him  in  silence.  Eleven  years  had  he 
labored  there  alone,  too  humble  to  speak  voluntarily  of  his 
labors ;  too  insignificant,  apparently,  for  questions  from  others. 
Although  for  the  most  part  happy  over  his  work,  there  were 
times  when  he  longed  for  a  friendly  ear  to  talk  to,  for  other 
eyes  to  criticise,  the  sympathy  of  other  minds,  the  help  of 
other  hands.  At  these  moments  he  felt  drearily  lonely  over 
his  valve  and  register ;  they  even  seemed  to  mock  him.  He 
was  not  imaginative,  yet  occasionally  they  acted  as  if  moved 
by  human  motives,  and,  worse  still,  became  fairly  devilish  in 
their  crooked  perverseness.  Nobody  had  ever  asked  before 


BRO." 


237 


to  go  into  that  room.  Should  he  ?  Should  he  not  ?  Should 
he  ?  Then  he  did. 

Lawrence,  at  home  everywhere,  sat  on  a  high  stool,  and 
looked  on  with  curiosity  while  the  inventor  brought  out  his 
inventions  and  explained  them.  It  was  a  high  day  for  Bro : 
new  life  was  in  him ;  he  talked  rapidly ;  a  dark  color  burned 
in  his  thin  cheeks.  He  talked  for  one  hour  without  stopping, 
the  buzz  of  the  great  saw  below  keeping  up  an  accompani- 
ment ;  then  he  paused. 

"  How  do  they  seem  to  you  ?  "  he  asked  feverishly. 

"  Well,  I  have  an  idea  that  self-registers  are  about  all  they 
can  be  now ;  I  have  seen  them  in  use  in  several  places  at  the 
North,"  said  Lawrence.  "  As  to  the  steam-valve,  I  don't 
know ;  there  may  be  something  in  it.  But  there  is  no  doubt 
about  that  screw :  for  some  uses  it  is  perfect,  better  than  any- 
thing we  have,  I  should  say." 

"  Oh,  the  screw  ?  "  said  the  other  man,  in  a  slow,  disap- 
pointed voice.  "  Yes,  it  is  a  good  screw ;  but  the  valve — " 

"Yes,  as  you  say,  the  valve,"  said  Lawrence,  jumping 
down  from  his  stool,  and  looking  at  this  and  that  carelessly 
on  his  way  to  the  door.  "  I  don't  comprehend  enough  of  the 
matter,  Bro,  to  judge.  But  you  send  up  that  screw  to  Wash- 
ington at  once  and  get  a  patent  out  on  it ;  you  will  make 
money,  I  know." 

He  was  gone ;  there  was  nothing  more  to  see  in  the  saw- 
mill, so  he  paddled  across,  and  went  down  toward  the  dock. 
The  smoke  of  a  steamer  coming  in  from  the  ocean  could  be 
seen ;  perhaps  there  would  be  something  going  on  down 
there. 

"He  is  certainly  a  remarkably  active  young  fellow,"  said 
Mrs.  Manning,  as  she  saw  the  top  of  his  head  passing,  the 
path  along-shore  being  below  the  level  of  the  cottage.  "  He 
has  seen  more  in  Wilbarger  already  than  I  have  ever  seen 
here  in  all  my  life." 

"  We  are,  perhaps,  a  little  old-fashioned,  mother,"  replied 
Marion. 


238  "BRO." 

"Perhaps  we  are,  child.  Fashions  always  were  a  long 
time  in  reaching  Wilbarger.  But  there  !  what  did  it  matter  ? 
We  had  them  sooner  or  later,  though  generally  later.  Still, 
bonnets  came  quite  regularly.  But  I  have  never  cared  much 
about  bonnets,"  pursued  Mrs.  Manning  reflectively,  "  since 
capes  went  out,  and  those  sweet  ruches  in  front,  full  of  little 
rose-buds.  There  is  no  such  thing  now  as  a  majestic  bon- 
net." 

Bro  came  over  to  tea  as  usual.  He  appeared  changed. 
This  was  remarkable ;  there  had  never  been  any  change  in 
him  before,  as  far  back  as  they  could  remember. 

"  You  are  surely  not  going  to  have  a  fever  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Manning  anxiously,  skilled  in  fever  symptoms,  as  are  all 
dwellers  on  that  shore. 

"  No  ;  I  have  been  a  little  overturned  in  mind  this  after- 
noon, that  is  all,"  replied  Bro.  Then,  with  a  shadow  of  im- 
portance, "  I  am  obliged  to  write  to  Washington." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Manning,  for  once 
assuming  the  position  of  questioner. 

"  I  have  invented  a — screw,"  he  answered,  hesitatingly — 
"  a  screw,  which  young  Mr.  Vickery  thinks  a  good  one.  I 
am  going  to  apply  for  a  patent  on  it." 

"  Dear  me  !    Apply  for  a  patent  ?     Do  you  know  how  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  how,"  replied  the  inventor  quietly. 

Marion  was  looking  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  You  invented  the  screw,  Ambrose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Marion."  Then,  unable  to  keep  down  his 
feelings  any  longer — "  But  there  is  a  valve  also,"  he  added 
with  pride,  "  which  seems  to  me  more  important ;  and  there 
is  a  self-register." 

"  Lawrence  was  over  there  this  evening,  was  he  not  ? 
And  you  showed  him  your  inventions  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Marion,  I  did." 

"  But  why  in  the  world,  Bro,  have  you  not  told  us,  or,  in- 
deed, any  one,  about  them  all  these  years  ?  "  interposed  Mrs. 
Manning,  surveying  her  listener  with  new  eyes. 


239 

"  You  did  not  ask ;  nobody  has  ever  asked.  Mr.  Vickery 
is  the  only  one." 

"  Then  it  was  Lawrence  who  advised  you  to  write  to 
Washington  ?  "  said  Marion. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  will  take  me  over  to  the  mill  immediately,"  said  the 
girl,  rising ;  "  I  wish  to  see  everything. — And,  mother,  will 
you  come,  too  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Manning,  with  a  determination 
to  go  in  spite  of  her  avoirdupois,  the  darkness,  the  row-boat, 
and  the  steep  mill-stairs.  She  was  devoured  by  curiosity,  and 
performed  the  journey  without  flinching.  When  they  reached 
the  work-room  at  last,  Bro,  in  his  excitement,  lighted  all  the 
lamps  he  had  in  the  mill  and  brought  them  in,  so  that  the 
small  place  was  brilliant.  Mrs.  Manning  wondered  and  ejac- 
ulated, tried  not  to  knock  over  small  articles,  listened,  com- 
prehended nothing,  and  finally  took  refuge  mentally  with  the 
screw  and  physically  in  an  old  arm-chair ;  these  two  things  at 
least  she  understood.  Marion  studied  the  valve  a  long  time, 
listening  attentively  to  Bro's  eager  explanations.  "  I  can 
make  nothing  of  it,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  vexed  tone. 

"  Neither  could  Mr.  Vickery,"  said  Bro. 

She  next  turned  to  the  register,  and,  before  long,  caught 
its  idea. 

"  It  is  not  quite  right  yet,  for  some  reason,"  explained  the 
inventor,  apologetically. 

She  looked  over  his  figures. 

"  It  is  plain  enough  why  it  is  not  right,"  she  said,  after  a 
moment,  in  her  schoolmistress  tone.  "  Your  calculations  are 
wrong.  Give  me  a  pencil."  She  went  to  work  at  once,  and 
soon  had  a  whole  sheet  covered.  "  It  will  take  me  some 
time,"  she  said,  glancing  up  at  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  "  If  you  are  tired,  mother,  you  had  better  go  back." 

"  I  think  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Manning,  whose  mind  was  now 
on  the  darkness  and  the  rowr-boat.  Bro  went  with  her,  and 
then  returned.  The  mother  no  more  thought  of  asking  her 


240  "  BRO" 

daughter  to  leave  a  column  of  unfinished  figures  than  of  ask- 
ing a  child  to  leave  an  unfinished  cake. 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me  now,  but  sit  down  and  wait,"  said 
Marion,  without  looking  up,  when  Bro  came  back.  He 
obeyed,  and  did  not  stir ;  instead,  he  fell  to  noticing  the  effect 
of  her  profile  against  the  red  cloth  over  the  window.  It  took 
Marion  longer  than  she  expected  to  finish  the  calculation  ; 
her  cheeks  glowed  over  the  work.  "  There  ! "  she  said  at 
last,  throwing  down  the  pencil  and  pushing  the  paper  toward 
him.  She  had  succeeded ;  the  difficulty  was  practically  at  an 
end.  Bro  looked  at  the  paper  and  at  her  with  admiring  pride. 

"  It  is  your  invention  now,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  only  did  the  sum  for  you.  Astronomers  often 
have  somebody  to  do  the  sums  for  them." 

"  I  shall  apply  for  patents  on  all  three  now,"  said  Bro ; 
"  and  the  register  is  yours,  Miss  Marion.  In  eleven  years  I 
have  not  succeeded  in  doing  what  you  have  just  done  in  an 
hour." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you,  Ambrose,"  replied  Marion 
lightly.  She  was  quite  accustomed  to  his  praise,  she  had  had 
it  steadily  from  childhood.  If  not  always  gracefully  expressed, 
at  least  it  was  always  earnest ;  but,  like  Ambrose,  of  no  con- 
sequence. 

Bro  made  his  application  in  due  form.  Young  Vickery 
volunteered  to  write  to  an  acquaintance  in  Washington,  a 
young  lawyer,  who  aspired  to  "patent  business,"  asking  him, 
as  he  expressed  it,  to  "  see  Bro  through."  "  No  sharp  prac- 
tice in  this  case,  Dan,"  he  wrote  privately.  "  Cranch  is  poor, 
and  a  friend  of  friends  of  mine ;  do  your  best  for  him." 

But,  although  he  thus  good-naturedly  assisted  the  man,  he 
laughed  at  the  woman  for  her  part  in  the  figures,  which  Bro 
had  related  with  pride. 

"  What  will  you  do  next  ?  "  he  said.  "  Build  a  stone  wall 
— or  vote  ?  Imagine  a  girl  taking  light  recreation  in  equa- 
tions, and  letting  her  mind  wander  hilariously  among  groves 
of  triangles  on  a  rainy  day  ! " 


"BRO"  241 

Marion  colored  highly,  but  said  nothing.  Her  incisiveness 
seemed  to  fail  her  when  with  Lawrence  Vickery.  And,  as  he 
was  never  more  than  half  in  earnest,  it  was  as  hard  to  use 
real  weapons  against  him  as  to  fence  with  the  summer  wind. 
The  young  man  seemed  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  Bro ;  he  spent 
an  hour  or  two  at  the  saw-mill  almost  every  day,  and  Cassar  had 
become  quite  accustomed  to  his  voice  shouting  for  the  boat. 
But  the  old  negro  liked  him,  and  came  across  cheerfully,  even 
giving  him  voluntarily  the  title  "  marse,"  which  the  blacks  with- 
held whenever  they  pleased  now,  and  tenaciously.  Vickery 
took  Bro  over  to  see  his  grandfather,  the  old  house,  and  the 
wastes  which  were  once  their  cotton-fields.  He  had  no  pride 
about  the  old  gentleman's  lowly  office ;  he  had  roamed  about 
the  world  too  much  for  that.  And,  when  Bro  suggested  that 
he  should  take  the  position  himself  and  relieve  his  grandfather, 
he  answered  carelessly  that  his  grandfather  did  not  want  to 
be  relieved,  which  was  true — old  Mr.  Vickery  deriving  the  only 
amusement  of  his  life  now  in  plans  for  outwitting,  in  various 
small  ways,  the  spirited  superintendent. 

"  However,"  said  Lawrence,  "  I  could  not  in  any  case  ;  I 
have  plans  of  importance  waiting  for  me." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Bro. 

"  Well — abroad.  I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  said  Vickery; 
"  but  it  is  a  secret  at  present." 

"  Then  you  do  not  intend  to  stay  here  ?  " 

"  Here  ?  Bless  you,  no  !  The  place  is  a  howling,  one- 
horse  desert.  I  only  came  back  awhile  to  see  the  old  man." 

The  "  while  "  lasted  all  winter,  Young  Vickery  exhausted 
the  town,  the  island,  and  the  whole  district ;  he  was  "  hail 
fellow  "  with  everybody,  made  acquaintance  with  the  light- 
house-keeper, knew  the  captains  of  all  the  schooners,  and 
even  rode  on  the  hand-car  and  was  admitted  to  the  friendship 
of  the  superintendent.  But,  in  the  way  of  real  intimacy,  the 
cottage  and  the  saw-mill  were  his  favorite  haunts.  He  was 
with  Marion  a  part  of  every  day ;  he  teased  her,  laughed  at 
her  flowers,  mimicked  her  precise  pronunciation,  made  cari- 
ii 


242 

catures  of  her  friend  Miss  Drough,  and  occasionally  walked 
by  with  Nannie  Barr,  the  most  consummate  little  flirt  in  the 
town.  Marion  changed — that  is,  inwardly.  She  was  too 
proud  to  alter  her  life  outwardly,  and,  beyond  putting  away 
the  chess-problem  book,  and  walking  with  Miss  Drough  in 
quiet  paths  through  the  andromeda  and  smilax  thickets,  or 
out  on  the  barrens  among  the  saw-palmettoes,  rather  than 
through  the  streets  of  the  town,  what  she  did  was  the  same 
as  usual.  But  she  was  not  what  she  had  been.  She  seemed 
to  have  become  timid,  almost  irresolute ;  she  raised  her  eyes 
quickly  and  dropped  them  as  quickly :  the  old  calm,  steady 
gaze  was  gone ;  her  color  came  and  went.  She  was  still  erect 
as  ever :  she  could  not  change  that ;  but  she  seemed  disposed 
to  sit  more  in  the  shadow,  or  half  behind  the  curtain,  or  to 
withdraw  to  her  own  room,  where  the  bolt  was  now  often 
used  which  had  formerly  rusted  in  its  place.  Bro  noticed  all 
this.  Marion's  ways  had  not  been  changeable  like  those  of 
most  girls,  and  he  had  grown  into  knowing  them  exactly : 
being  a  creature  of  precise  habit  himself,  he  now  felt  uncom- 
fortable and  restless  because  she  was  so.  At  last  he  spoke  to 
her  mother.  "  She  is  certainly  changed  :  do  you  think  there 
is  any  danger  of  fever  ?  "  he  asked  uneasily.  But  Mrs.  Man- 
ning only  blinked  and  nodded  smilingly  back  in  answer,  hold- 
ing up  her  finger  to  signify  that  Marion  was  within  hearing. 
Supposing  that  he  had  comprehended  her,  of  course,  and  glad 
to  have  a  confidant,  she  now  blinked  and  nodded  at  him  from 
all  sides — from  behind  doors,  from  over  Marion's  head,  from 
out  of  the  windows,  even  throwing  her  confidential  delight  to 
him  across  the  river  as  he  stood  in  the  saw-mill  doorway. 
Marion,  then,  was  going  through  something — something  not 
to  be  mentioned,  but  only  mysteriously  nodded — which  was 
beneficial  to  her ;  what  could  it  be  ?  She  had  taken  to  going 
very  frequently  to  church  lately,  in  spite  of  her  dislike  to  "  the 
worm,"  who  still  occupied  the  pulpit.  Bro  went  back  to  the 
experience  of  his  youth  in  the  up-country,  the  only  experience 
he  had  to  go  back  to,  and  decided  that  she  must  be  having 


ERG." 


243 


what  they  used  to  call  there  "  a  change  of  heart."  Upon 
mentioning  this  in  a  furtive  tone  to  Mrs.  Manning,  she 
laughed  heartily,  rather  to  his  surprise,  for  he  was  a  reverent 
sort  of  non-churchgoing  pagan,  and  said,  "  Very  good,  Bro — 
very  good,  indeed  !  " 

He  decided  that  he  had  guessed  rightly;  the  Episcopalian 
was,  he  had  heard,  a  very  cheerful  kind  of  religion,  tears  and 
groaning  not  being  required  of  its  neophytes. 

But  his  eyes  were  to  be  opened.  The  last  trump  could 
not  have  startled  him  more  than  something  he  saw  with  his 
own  eyes  one  day.  It  happened  in  this  way  :  There  was  an 
accident  on  the  wharf ;  a  young  man  was  crushed  between 
the  end  of  the  dock  and  the  side  of  the  steamer ;  some  one 
came  running  to  the  cottage  and  said  it  was  Lawrence  Vick- 
ery.  Mrs.  Manning,  the  hands  at  the  mill,  and  even  old  Di- 
nah, started  off  at  once ;  the  whole  town  was  hurrying  to  the 
scene.  Bro,  shut  up  in  his  workroom,  going  over  his  beloved 
valve  again,  did  not  hear  or  see  them.  It  was  nearly  dinner- 
time, and,  when  he  came  out  and  found  no  boat,  he  was  sur- 
prised ;  but  he  paddled  himself  across  on  a  rude  raft  he  had, 
and  went  up  to  the  cottage.  The  doors  stood  open  all  over 
the  house  as  the  hasty  departures  had  left  them,  and  he  heard 
Marion  walking  up  and  down  in  her  room  up  stairs,  sobbing 
aloud  and  wildly.  He  had  never  heard  her  sob  before  ;  even 
as  a  child  she  had  been  reticent  and  self-controlled.  He 
stood  appalled  at  the  sound.  What  could  it  betoken  ?  He 
stole  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  listened.  She  was  moaning 
Lawrence's  name  over  and  over  to  herself  —  "Lawrence! 
Lawrence  !  Lawrence  !  "  He  started  up  the  stairs,  hardly 
knowing  what  he  was  doing.  Her  grief  was  dreadful  to  him  : 
he  wanted  to  comfort  her,  but  did  not  know  how.  He  hardly 
realized  what  the  cry  meant.  But  it  was  to  come  to  him. 
The  heart-broken  girl,  who  neither  saw  nor  heard  him,  al- 
though he  was  now  just  outside  the  door,  drew  a  locket  from 
her  bosom  and  kissed  it  passionately  with  a  flood  of  despair- 
ing, loving  words.  Then,  as  if  at  the  end  of  her  strength, 


244 


BROr 


with  a  sigh  like  death,  she  sank  to  the  floor  lifeless ;  she  had 
fainted. 

After  a  moment  the  man  entered.  He  seemed  to  himself 
to  have  been  standing  outside  that  door  for  a  limitless  period 
of  time  ;  like  those  rare,  strange  sensations  we  feel  of  having 
done  the  same  thing  or  spoken  the  same  words  before  in 
some  other  and  unknown  period  of  existence.  He  lifted  Ma- 
rion carefully  and  laid  her  on  a  lounge.  As  he  moved  her, 
the  locket  swung  loose  against  her  belt  on  the  long  ribbon 
which  was  fastened  underneath  her  dress  around  her  throat. 
It  was  a  clumsy,  old-fashioned  locket,  with  an  open  face,  and 
into  its  small  frame  she  herself  had  inserted  a  photograph  of 
Lawrence  Vickery,  cut  from  a  carte  de  msite.  Bro  saw  it : 
the  open  face  of  the  locket  was  toward  him,  and  he  could  not 
help  seeing.  It  occurred  to  him  then  vaguely  that,  as  she  had 
worn  it  concealed,  it  should  be  again  hidden  before  other  eyes 
saw  it— before  she  could  know  that  even  his  had  rested  upon 
it.  With  shaking  fingers  he  took  out  his  knife,  and,  opening 
its  smallest  blade,  he  gently  severed  the  ribbon,  took  off  the 
locket,  and  put  it  into  her  pocket.  It  was  surprising  to  see 
how  skillfully  his  large,  rough  hands  did  this.  Then,  with  an 
afterthought,  he  found  a  worn  place  in  the  ribbon's  end,  and 
severed  it  again  by  pulling  it  apart,  taking  the  cut  portion 
away  with  him.  His  idea  was,  that  she  would  think  the  rib- 
bon had  parted  of  itself  at  the  worn  spot,  and  she  did  think 
so.  It  was  a  pretty,  slender  little  ribbon,  of  bright  rose-color. 
When  all  was  finished,  he  went  to  seek  assistance.  He  knew 
no  more  what  to  do  for  her  physically  than  he  would  have 
known  what  to  do  for  an  angel.  Although  there  was  not  the 
faintest  sign  of  consciousness,  he  had  carefully  refrained  from 
even  touching  her  unnecessarily  in  the  slightest  degree  :  it 
seemed  to  him  profanation.  But  there  was  no  one  in  the 
house.  He  went  to  the  gate,  and  there  caught  sight  of  Mrs. 
Manning  hurrying  homeward  across  the  sandy  waste. 

"  It  is  all  a  mistake,"  she  panted,  with  the  tears  still  drop- 
ping on  her  crimson  cheeks.  "  It  was  not  Lawrence  at  all, 


"BROr  245 

but  young  Harding.  Lawrence  has  gone  down  the  road  with 
the  superintendent ;  but  poor  young  Harding  is,  I  fear,  fatally 
injured." 

Even  then  automatic  memory  brought  to  Bro's  mind  only 
the  idea,  "  He  will  never  twist  his  feet  around  chair-legs  any 
more  I  It  was  almost  the  only  fault  he  had,  poor  fellow ! " 

"  Miss  Marion  is  not  quite  well,  I  think,"  he  said.  "  I 
heard  her  crying  a  little  up  stairs  as  I  came  in." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  mother,  "  poor  child  !  But  it  is  all 
over  now. — It  was  not  Lawrence  at  all,  Marion,"  she  cried 
loudly,  hurrying  up  the  path  to  the  doorway ;  "  it  was  only 
young  Harding." 

Love  has  ears,  even  in  semi-death,  and  it  heard  that  cry. 
When  Mrs.  Manning,  breathless,  reached  her  daughter's 
room,  she  found  her  on  the  lounge  still,  but  with  recovered 
consciousness,  and  even  palely  smiling.  The  picture  was 
safely  in  her  pocket ;  she  supposed,  when  she  found  it,  that 
she  must  have  placed  it  there  herself.  She  never  had  any 
suspicion  of  Bro's  presence  or  his  action. 

The  saw-miller  had  disappeared.  Mrs.  Manning  sup- 
posed that  he,  in  his  turn,  had  gone  to  the  dock  or  to  the 
Harding  cottage. 

When  he  came  in  to  tea  that  night  he  looked  strangely, 
but  was  able  to  account  for  it. 

"  Letters  from  Washington,"  he  said.  Then  he  paused  ; 
they  looked  at  him  expectantly.  "  The  idea  of  the  register  is 
not  a  new  one,"  he  added  slowly ;  "  it  has  already  been  pat- 
ented." 

"  My  inheritance  is  gone,  then,"  said  Marion  gayly. 

She  spoke  without  reflection,  being  so  happy  now  in  the 
reaction  of  her  great  relief  that  she  was  very  near  talking 
nonsense,  a  feminine  safety-valve  which  she  hardly  ever  be- 
fore had  had  occasion  to  seek. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bro,  a  pained  quiver  crossing  his  face  for  an 
instant.  "  The  valve  also  is  pronounced  worthless,"  he  added 
in  a  monotonous  voice. 


246  "  BRO." 

Mother  and  daughter  noticed  his  tone  and  his  lifeless 
look;  they  attributed  it  to  his  deep,  bitter  disappointment, 
and  felt  sorry  for  him. 

"  But  the  screw,  Bro  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Manning. 

"  That  is  successful,  I  believe  ;  the  patent  is  granted." 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  replied  triumphantly.  "  Even  /  could 
see  the  great  merits  it  had.  I  congratulate  you,  Bro." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Marion.  She  would  have  congratulated 
anybody  that  evening. 

"  The  valve  is  a  disappointment  to  me,"  said  the  man, 
speaking  steadily,  although  dully.  "  I  had  worked  over  it  so 
long  that  I  counted  upon  it  as  certain." 

Then  he  rose  and  went  over  to  the  mill. 

In  the  mean  time  Lawrence  Vickery  was  riding  homeward 
comfortably  on  the  hand-car,  and  had  no  idea  that  he  was 
supposed  to  be  dead.  But  he  learned  it ;  and  learned  some- 
thing else  also  from  Marion's  sensitive,  tremulous  face,  deli- 
cate as  a  flower.  A  warm-hearted,  impulsive  fellow,  he  was 
touched  by  her  expression,  and  went  further  than  he  intended. 
That  is  to  say,  that,  having  an  opportunity,  thanks  to  Mrs. 
Manning,  who  went  up  stairs,  purposely  leaving  them  alone 
together,  he  began  by  taking  Marion's  hand  reassuringly,  and 
looking  into  her  eyes,  and  ended  by  having  her  in  his  arms 
and  continuing  to  look  into  her  eyes,  but  at  a  much  nearer 
range.  In  short,  he  put  himself  under  as  firm  betrothal  bonds 
as  ever  a  man  did  in  the  whole  history  of  betrothals. 

In  the  mean  time  the  soft-hearted  mother,  sitting  in  the 
darkness  up  stairs,  was  shedding  tears  tenderly,  and  thinking 
of  her  own  betrothal.  That  Lawrence  was  poor  was  a  small 
matter  to  her,  compared  with  the  fact  that  Marion  was  loved 
at  last,  and  happy.  Lawrence  was  a  Vickery,  and  the  son  of 
her  old  friend  ;  besides,  to  her,  as  to  most  Southern  women, 
the  world  is  very  well  lost  for  the  sake  of  love. 

And  Bro,  over  at  the  saw-mill  ? 

His  red  lights  shone  across  the  marsh  as  usual,  and  he 
was  in  his  work-room ;  in  his  hand  was  the  model  of  his 


"  BRO."  247 

valve.  He  had  made  it  tell  a  lie  that  night ;  he  had  used  it  as 
a  mask.  He  gazed  at  it,  the  creature  of  his  brain,  his  com- 
panion through  long  years,  and  he  felt  that  he  no  longer  cared 
whether  it  was  good  for  anything  or  not !  Then  he  remem- 
bered listlessly  that  it  was  good  for  nothing ;  the  highest  au- 
thorities had  said  so.  But,  gone  from  him  now  was  the  com- 
prehension of  their  reasons,  and  this  he  began  to  realize.  He 
muttered  over  a  formula,  began  a  calculation,  both  well  known 
to  him  ;  he  could  do  neither.  His  mind  strayed  from  its  duty 
idly,  as  a  loose  bough  sways  in  the  wind.  He  put  his  hands 
to  his  head  and  sat  down.  He  sat  there  motionless  all  night. 
But  oh,  how  happy  Marion  was !  Not  effusively,  not  spo- 
kenly,  but  internally ;  the  soft  light  shining  out  from  her  heart, 
however,  as  it  does  through  a  delicate  porcelain  shade.  Old 
Mr.  Vickery  was  delighted  too,  and  a  new  series  of  invitations 
followed  in  honor  of  the  betrothal ;  even  the  superintendent 
was  invited,  and  came  on  his  hand-car.  Bro  was  included 
also,  but  he  excused  himself.  His  excuses  were  accepted 
without  insistence,  because  it  was  understood  that  he  was  al- 
most heart-broken  by  his  disappointments.  Joy  and  sorrow 
meet.  When  the  engagement  had  lasted  five  weeks,  and  Ma- 
rion had  had  thirty-five  days  of  her  new  happiness,  the  old 
grandfather  died,  rather  suddenly,  but  peacefully,  and  without 
pain.  Through  a  long,  soft  April  day  he  lay  quietly  looking 
at  them  all,  speechless  but  content ;  and  then  at  sunset  he 
passed  away.  Mrs.  Manning  wept  heartily,  and  Marion  too ; 
even  Lawrence  was  not  ashamed  of  the  drops  on  his  cheeks 
as  he  surveyed  the  kind  old  face,  now  for  ever  still.  Every- 
body came  to  the  funeral,  and  everybody  testified  respect ; 
then  another  morning  broke,  and  life  went  on  again.  The 
sun  shines  just  the  same,  no  matter  who  has  been  laid  in  the 
earth,  and  the  flowers  bloom.  This  seems  to  the  mourner  a 
strange  thing,  and  a  hard.  In  this  case,  however,  there  was 
no  one  to  suffer  the  extreme  pain  of  violent  separation,  for  all 
the  old  man's  companions  and  contemporaries  were  already 
gone  ;  he  was  the  last. 


248 

Another  month  went  by,  and  another ;  the  dead  heats  of 
summer  were  upon  them.  Marion  minded  them  not ;  scorch- 
ing air  and  arctic  snows  were  alike  to  her  when  Lawrence 
was  with  her.  Poor  girl !  she  had  the  intense,  late-coming 
love  of  her  peculiar  temperament :  to  please  him  she  would 
have  continued  smiling  on  the  rack  itself  until  she  died.  But 
why,  after  all,  call  her  "  poor  "  ?  Is  not  such  love,  even  if  un- 
returned,  great  riches  ? 

Bro  looked  at  her,  and  looked  at  her,  and  looked  at  her. 
He  had  fallen  back  into  his  old  way  of  life  again,  and  nobody 
noticed  anything  unusual  in  him  save  what  was  attributed  to 
his  disappointment. 

"  You  see  he  had  shut  himself  up  there,  and  worked  over 
that  valve  for  years,"  explained  Mrs.  Manning ;  "  and,  not  let- 
ting anybody  know  about  it  either,  he  had  come  to  think  too 
much  of  it,  and  reckon  upon  it  as  certain.  He  was  always 
an  odd,  lonely  sort  of  man,  you  know,  and  this  has  told  upon 
him  heavily." 

By  and  by  it  became  evident  that  Lawrence  was  restless. 
He  had  sold  off  what  he  could  of  his  inheritance,  but  that 
was  only  the  old  furniture ;  no  one  wanted  the  sidling,  unre- 
paired house,  which  was  now  little  better  than  a  shell,  or  the 
deserted  cotton-fields,  whose  dikes  were  all  down.  He  had  a 
scheme  for  going  abroad  again ;  he  could  do  better  there,  he 
said  ;  he  had  friends  who  would  help  him. 

"  Shall  you  take  Miss  Marion  ?  "  asked  Bro,  speaking  un- 
expectedly, and,  for  him,  markedly.  They  were  all  present. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Lawrence,  "  not  now.  How  could  I  ? 
But  I  shall  come  back  for  her  soon."  He  looked  across  at  his 
betrothed  with  a  smile.  But  Marion  had  paled  suddenly,  and 
Bro  had  seen  it. 

The  next  event  was  a  conversation  at  the  mill. 

Young  Vickery  wandered  over  there  a  few  days  later.  He 
was  beginning  to  feel  despondent  and  weary :  everything  at 
Wilbarger  was  at  its  summer  ebb,  and  the  climate,  too,  af- 
fected him.  Having  become  really  fond  of  Marion  now,  and 


"  BRO"  249 

accustomed  to  all  the  sweetness  of  her  affection,  he  hated  to 
think  of  leaving  her;  yet  he  must.  He  leaned  against  the 
window-sill,  and  let  out  disjointed  sentences  of  discontent  to 
Bro  ;  it  even  seemed  a  part  of  his  luck  that  it  should  be  dead 
low  water  outside  as  he  glanced  down,  and  all  the  silver  chan- 
nels slimy. 

"  That  saw  makes  a  fearful  noise,"  he  said. 

"  Come  into  my  room,"  said  Bro  ;  "  you  will  not  hear  it  so 
plainly  there."  It  was  not  the  work-room,  but  the  bedroom. 
The  work-room  was  not  mentioned  now,  out  of  kindness  to 
Bro.  Lawrence  threw  himself  down  on  the  narrow  bed,  and 
dropped  his  straw  hat  on  the  floor.  "  The  world's  a  miser- 
able hole,"  he  said,  with  unction. 

Bro  sat  down  on  a  three-legged  stool,  the  only  approach 
to  a  chair  in  the  room,  and  looked  at  him ;  one  hand,  in  the 
pocket  of  his  old,  shrunk  linen  coat,  was  touching  a  let- 
ter. 

"  Bah ! "  said  Lawrence,  clasping  his  hands  under  his  head 
and  stretching  himself  out  to  his  full  length  on  the  bed,  "  how 
in  the  world  can  I  leave  her,  Bro  ?  Poor  little  thing ! " 

Now  to  Bro,  to  whom  Marion  had  always  seemed  a  cross 
between  a  heavenly  goddess  and  an  earthly  queen,  this  epithet 
was  startling;  however,  it  was,  after  all,  but  a  part  of  the 
whole. 

"It  is  a  pity  that  you  should  leave  her,"  he  replied  slowly. 
"  It  would  be  much  better  to  take  her  with  you." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  would.  I  am  a  fickle  sort  of  fellow,  too, 
and  have  all  sorts  of  old  entanglements  over  there,  besides. 
They  might  take  hold  of  me  again." 

Bro  felt  a  new  and  strange  misgiving,  which  went  through 
three  distinct  phases,  with  the  strength  and  depth  of  an  ocean, 
in  less  than  three  seconds :  first,  bewilderment  at  the  new 
idea  that  anybody  could  be  false  to  Marion ;  second,  a  wild, 
darting  hope  for  himself ;  third,  the  returning  iron  conviction 
that  it  could  never  be,  and  that,  if  Lawrence  deserted  Marion, 
she  would  die. 


250 


SRO." 


"  If  you  had  money,  what  would  you  do  ?  "  he  asked,  com- 
ing back  to  the  present  heavily. 

"  Depends  upon  how  much  it  was." 

"  Five  thousand  dollars  ?  " 

"  Well — I'd  marry  on  that,  but  not  very  hilariously,  old 
fellow." 

"Ten?" 

"  That  would  do  better." 

Nothing  has  as  yet  been  said  of  Lawrence  Vickery's  ap- 
pearance. It  will  be  described  now,  and  will,  perhaps,  throw 
light  backward  over  this  narration. 

Imagine  a  young  man,  five  feet  eleven  inches  in  height, 
straight,  strong,  but  slender  still,  in  spite  of  his  broad  shoul- 
ders ;  imagine,  in  addition,  a  spirited  head  and  face,  bright, 
steel-blue  eyes,  a  bold  profile,  and  beautiful  mouth,  shaded  by 
a  golden  mustache ;  add  to  this,  gleaming  white  teeth,  a  dim- 
ple in  the  cleft,  strongly  molded  chin,  a  merry  laugh,  and  a 
thoroughly  manly  air;  and  you  have  Lawrence  Broughton 
Vickery  at  twenty-eight. 

When  at  last  he  took  himself  off,  and  went  over  to  see 
Marion  and  be  more  miserable  still,  Bro  drew  the  letter  from 
his  pocket,  and  read  it  for  the  sixth  or  seventh  time.  During 
these  months  his  screw  had  become  known,  having  been 
pushed  persistently  by  the  enterprising  young  lawyer  who  as- 
pired to  patent  business  in  the  beginning,  and  having  held  its 
own  since  by  sheer  force  of  merit.  The  enterprising  young 
lawyer  had,  however,  recently  forsaken  law  for  politics ;  he 
had  gone  out  to  one  of  the  Territories  with  the  intention  of 
returning  some  day  as  senator  when  the  Territory  should  be 
a  State  (it  is  but  fair  to  add  that  his  chance  is  excellent).  But 
he  had,  of  course,  no  further  knowledge  of  the  screw,  and 
Bro  now  managed  the  business  himself.  This  letter  was  from 
a  firm  largely  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  machinery,  and 
it  contained  an  offer  for  the  screw  and  patent  outright — ten 
thousand  dollars. 

"  I  shall  never  invent  anything  more,"  thought  Bro,  the 


25 1 

words  of  the  letter  writing  themselves  vacantly  on  his  brain. 
"  Something  has  gone  wrong  inside  my  head  in  some  way, 
and  the  saw-mill  will  be  all  I  shall  ever  attend  to  again." 

Then  he  paused. 

"  It  would  be  worth  more  money  in  the  end  if  I  could  keep 
it,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  But  even  a  larger  sum  might  not 
serve  so  well  later,  perhaps."  It  was  all  to  be  Marion's  in 
either  case — which  would  be  best  ?  Then  he  remembered 
her  sudden  pallor,  and  that  decided  him.  "  He  shall  have  it 
now,"  he  said.  "  How  lucky  that  he  was  content  with  ten  ! " 

Some  men  would  have  given  the  money  also  in  the  same 
circumstances ;  but  they  would  have  given  it  to  Marion.  It 
was  characteristic  of  Bro's  deep  and  minute  knowledge  of  the 
girl,  and  what  would  be  for  her  happiness,  that  he  planned  to 
give  the  money  to  the  man,  and  thus  weight  down  and  steady 
the  lighter  nature. 

He  dwelt  a  long  time  upon  ways  and  means ;  he  was  sev- 
eral days  in  making  up  his  mind.  At  last  he  decided  what  to 
do ;  and  did  it. 

Three  weeks  afterward  a  letter  came  to  Wilbarger,  di- 
rected in  a  clear  handwriting  to  "  Mr.  Lawrence  Broughton 
Vickery."  It  was  from  a  Northern  lawyer,  acting  for  another 
party,  and  contained  an  offer  for  Vickery  Island  with  its 
house,  cotton-fields,  and  marsh  ;  price  offered,  ten  thousand 
dollars.  The  lawyer  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  the  size 
of  the  island,  the  condition  of  the  fields  and  out-buildings ; 
he  mentioned  that  the  purchase  was  made  with  the  idea  of 
reviving  the  cotton-culture  immediately,  similar  attempts  on 
the  part  of  Rhode  Island  manufacturers,  who  wished  to  raise 
their  own  cotton,  having  succeeded  on  the  sea-islands  farther 
north.  Lawrence,  in  a  whirl  of  delight,  read  the  letter  aloud 
in  a  cottage-parlor,  tossed  it  over  gayly  to  Mrs.  Manning,  and 
clasped  Marion  in  his  arms. 

"  Well,  little  wife,"  he  said  happily,  stroking  her  soft  hair, 
"  we  shall  go  over  the  ocean  together  now." 

And  Bro  looked  on. 


252  "BRO." 

The  wedding  took  place  in  the  early  autumn.  Although 
comparatively  quiet,  on  account  of  old  Mr.  Vickery's  death, 
all  Wilbarger  came  to  the  church,  and  crowded  into  the  cot- 
tage afterward.  By  a  happy  chance,  "  the  worm  "  was  at  the 
North,  soliciting  aid  for  his  "  fold,"  and  Marion  was  married 
by  a  gentle  little  missionary,  who  traversed  the  watery  coast- 
district  in  a  boat  instead  of  on  horseback,  visiting  all  the  sea- 
islands,  seeing  many  sad,  closed  little  churches,  and  encoun- 
tering not  infrequently  almost  pure  paganism  and  fetich-wor- 
ship among  the  neglected  blacks.  Bro  gave  the  bride  away. 
It  was  the  proudest  moment  of  his  life — and  the  saddest. 

"  Somebody  must  do  it,"  Mrs.  Manning  had  said ;  "  and 
why  not  Bro  ?  He  has  lived  in  our  house  for  twelve  years, 
and,  after  all,  now  that  old  Mr.  Vickery  is  gone,  he  is  in  one 
way  our  nearest  friend. — Do  let  me  ask  him,  Marion." 

"  Very  well,"  assented  the  bride,  caring  but  little  for  any- 
thing now  but  to  be  with  Lawrence  every  instant. 

She  did,  however,  notice  Bro  during  the  crowded  although 
informal  reception  which  followed  the  ceremony.  In  truth, 
he  was  noticeable.  In  honor  of  the  occasion,  he  had  ordered 
from  Savannah  a  suit  of  black,  and  had  sent  the  measure- 
ments himself  ;  the  result  was  remarkable,  the  coat  and  vest 
being  as  much  too  short  for  him  as  the  pantaloons  were  too 
long.  He  wore  a  white  cravat,  white-cotton  gloves  so  large 
that  he  looked  all  hands,  and  his  button-hole  was  decked  with 
flowers,  as  many  as  it  could  hold.  In  this  garb  he  certainly 
was  an  extraordinary  object,  and  his  serious  face  appearing  at 
the  top  made  the  effect  all  the  more  grotesque.  Marion  was 
too  good-hearted  to  smile ;  but  she  did  say  a  word  or  two  in 
an  undertone  to  Lawrence,  and  the  two  young  people  had  their 
own  private  amusement  over  his  appearance. 

But  Bro  was  unconscious  of  it,  or  of  anything  save  the 
task  he  had  set  for  himself.  It  was  remarked  afterward  that 
"  really  Bro  Cranch  talked  almost  like  other  people,  joked  and 
laughed,  too,  if  you  will  believe  it,  at  that  Manning  wedding." 

Lawrence  promised  to  bring  his  wife  home  at  the  end  of  a 


"BRO."  253 

year  to  see  her  mother,  and  perhaps,  if  all  went  well,  to  take 
the  mother  back  with  them.  Mrs.  Manning,  happy  and  sad 
together,  cried  and  smiled  in  a  breath.  But  Marion  was  ra- 
diant as  a  diamond  ;  her  gray  eyes  flashed  light.  Not  even 
when  saying  good-by  could  she  pretend  to  be  anything  but 
supremely  happy,  even  for  a  moment.  By  chance  Bro  had 
her  last  look  as  the  carriage  rolled  away ;  he  went  over  to  the 
mill  carrying  it  with  him,  and  returned  no  more  that  night. 

Wilbarger  began  to  wonder  after  a  while  when  that  Rhode 
Island  capitalist  would  begin  work  in  his  cotton-fields ;  they 
are  wondering  still.  In  course  of  time,  and  through  the 
roundabout  way  he  had  chosen,  Bro  received  the  deeds  of 
sale ;  he  made  his  will,  and  left  them  to  Marion.  Once  Mrs. 
Manning  asked  him  about  the  screw. 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  of  it  for  some  time/'  he  replied ; 
and  she  said  no  more,  thinking  it  had  also,  like  the  valve, 
proved  a  failure.  In  the  course  of  the  winter  the  little  work- 
room was  dismantled  and  the  partitions  taken  down ;  there  is 
nothing  there  now  but  the  plain  wall  of  the  mill.  The  red 
lights  no  longer  shine  across  the  marsh  to  Vickery  Island,  and 
there  is  no  one  there  to  see  them.  The  new  keeper  lives  in  a 
cabin  at  the  bridge,  and  plays  no  tricks  on  the  superintendent, 
who,  a  man  of  spirit  still,  but  not  quite  so  sanguine  as  to  the 
future  of  Wilbarger,  still  rolls  by  on  his  hand-car  from  north- 
east to  southeast. 

Bro  has  grown  old ;  he  is  very  patient  with  everybody. 
Not  that  he  ever  was  impatient,  but  that  patience  seems  now 
his  principal  characteristic.  He  often  asks  to  hear  portions  of 
Marion's  letters  read  aloud,  and  always  makes  gently  the  final 
comment :  "  Yes,  yes ;  §he  is  happy ! " 

It  is  whispered  around  Wilbarger  that  he  "has  had  a 
stroke  " ;  Mrs.  Manning  herself  thinks  so. 

Well,  in  a  certain  sense,  perhaps  she  is  right. 


KING  DAVID. 


I  met  a  traveler  on  the  road  ; 

His  face  was  wan,  his  feet  were  weary  ; 

Yet  he  unresting  went  with  such 

A  strange,  still,  patient  mien — a  look 

Set  forward  in  the  empty  air, 

As  he  were  reading  an  unseen  book. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


THE  scholars  were  dismissed.  Out  they  trooped — big 
boys,  little  boys,  and  full-grown  men.  Then  what  antics — 
what  linked  lines  of  scuffling ;  what  double  shuffles,  leaps, 
and  somersaults ;  what  rolling  laughter,  interspersed  with 
short  yelps  and  guttural  cries,  as  wild  and  free  as  the  sounds 
the  mustangs  make,  gamboling  on  the  plains  !  For  King 
David's  scholars  were  black — black  as  the  ace  of  spades.  He 
did  not  say  that ;  he  knew  very  little  about  the  ace.  He  said 
simply  that  his  scholars  were  "  colored  " ;  and  sometimes  he 
called  them  "  the  Children  of  Ham."  But  so  many  mistakes 
were  made  over  this  title,  in  spite  of  his  careful  explanations 
(the  Children  having  an  undoubted  taste  for  bacon),  that  he 
finally  abandoned  it,  and  fell  back  upon  the  national  name  of 
"freedmen,"  a  title  both  good  and  true.  He  even  tried  to 
make  it  noble,  speaking  to  them  often  of  their  wonderful  lot 
as  the  emancipated  teachers  and  helpers  of  their  race ;  laying 
before  them  their  mission  in  the  future,  which  was  to  go  over 
to  Africa,  and  wake  out  of  their  long  sloth  and  slumber  the 
thousands  of  souls  there.  But  Cassius  and  Pompey  had  only 
a  mythic  idea  of  Africa ;  they  looked  at  the  globe  as  it  was 
turned  around,  they  saw  it  there  on  the  other  side,  and  then 


KING  DAVID.  255 

their  attention  wandered  off  to  an  adventurous  ant  who  was 
making  the  tour  of  Soodan  and  crossing  the  mountains  of 
Kong  as  though  they  were  nothing. 

Lessons  over,  the  scholars  went  home.  The  schoolmaster 
went  home  too,  wiping  his  forehead  as  he  went.  He  was  a 
grave  young  man,  tall  and  thin,  somewhat  narrow-chested, 
with  the  diffident  air  of  a  country  student.  And  yet  this 
country  student  was  here,  far  down  in  the  South,  hundreds  of 
miles  away  from  the  New  Hampshire  village  where  he  had 
thought  to  spend  his  life  as  teacher  of  the  district  school. 
Extreme  near-sightedness  and  an  inherited  delicacy  of  con- 
stitution which  he  bore  silently  had  kept  him  out  of  the  field 
during  the  days  of  the  war.  "  I  should  be  only  an  encum- 
brance," he  thought.  But,  when  the  war  was  over,  the  fire 
which  had  burned  within  burst  forth  in  the  thought,  "  The 
freedmen ! "  There  was  work  fitted  to  his  hand ;  that  one 
thing  he  could  do.  "  My  turn  has  come  at  last,"  he  said. 
"  I  feel  the  call  to  go."  Nobody  cared  much  because  he  was 
leaving.  "  Going  down  to  teach  the  blacks  ?  "  said  the  farm- 
ers. "  I  don't  see  as  you're  called,  David.  We've  paid  dear 
enough  to  set  'em  free,  goodness  knows,  and  now  they  ought 
to  look  out  for  themselves." 

"  But  they  must  first  be  taught,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 
"  Our  responsibility  is  great ;  our  task  is  only  just  begun." 

"  Stuff  !  "  said  the  farmers.  What  with  the  graves  down 
in  the  South,  and  the  taxes  up  in  the  North,  they  were  not 
prepared  to  hear  any  talk  about  beginning.  Beginning,  in- 
deed !  They  called  it  ending.  The  slaves  were  freed,  and  it 
was  right  they  should  be  freed  ;  but  Ethan  and  Abner  were 
gone,  and  their  households  were  left  unto  them  desolate.  Let 
the  blacks  take  care  of  themselves. 

So,  all  alone,  down  came  David  King,  with  such  aid  and 
instruction  as  the  Freedman's  Bureau  could  give  him,  to  this 
little  settlement  among  the  pines,  where  the  freedmen  had 
built  some  cabins  in  a  careless  way,  and  then  seated  them- 
selves to  wait  for  fortune.  Freedmen !  Yes ;  a  glorious 


256  KING  DAVID. 

idea !  But  how  will  it  work  its  way  out  into  practical  life  ? 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  tens  of  thousands  of  ignorant, 
childish,  irresponsible  souls  thrown  suddenly  upon  your  hands  ; 
souls  that  will  not  long  stay  childish,  and  that  have  in  them 
also  all  the  capacities  for  evil  that  you  yourselves  have — you 
with  your  safeguards  of  generations  of  conscious  responsibility 
and  self-government,  and  yet— so  many  lapses  !  This  is  what 
David  King  thought.  He  did  not  see  his  way  exactly ;  no, 
nor  the  nation's  way.  But  he  said  to  himself :  "  I  can  at  least 
begin  ;  if  I  am  wrong,  I  shall  find  it  out  in  time.  But  now  it 
seems  to  me  that  our  first  duty  is  to  educate  them."  So  he 
began  at  "  a,  b,  and  c  " ;  "  You  must  not  steal "  ;  "  You  must 
not  fight " ;  "  You  must  wash  your  faces  " ;  which  may  be 
called,  I  think,  the  first  working  out  of  the  emancipation 
problem. 

Jubilee  Town  was  the  name  of  the  settlement ;  and  when 
the  schoolmaster  announced  his  own,  David  King,  the  title 
struck  the  imitative  minds  of  the  scholars,  and,  turning  it 
around,  they  made  "  King  David  "  of  it,  and  kept  it  so.  De- 
lighted with  the  novelty,  the  Jubilee  freedmen  came  to  school 
in  such  numbers  that  the  master  was  obliged  to  classify  them ; 
boys  and  men  in  the  mornings  and  afternoons ;  the  old  people 
in  the  evenings ;  the  young  women  and  girls  by  themselves 
for  an  hour  in  the  early  morning.  "  I  can  not  do  full  justice 
to  all,"  he  thought,  "  and  in  the  men  lies  the  danger,  in  the 
boys  the  hope ;  the  women  can  not  vote.  Would  to  God  the 
men  could  not  either,  until  they  have  learned  to  read  and  to 
write,  and  to  maintain  themselves  respectably ! "  For,  aboli- 
tionist as  he  was,  David  King  would  have  given  years  of  his 
life  for  the  power  to  restrict  the  suffrage.  Not  having  this 
power,  however,  he  worked  at  the  problem  in  the  only  way 
left  open  :  "  Take  two  apples  from  four  apples,  Julius — how 
many  will  be  left  ?  "  "  What  is  this  I  hear,  Caesar,  about 
stolen  bacon  ?  " 

On  this  day  the  master  went  home,  tired  and  dispirited ; 
the  novelty  was  over  on  both  sides.  He  had  been  five  months 


KING  DAVID.  257 

at  Jubilee,  and  his  scholars  were  more  of  a  puzzle  to  him  than 
ever.  They  learned,  some  of  them,  readily ;  but  they  forgot 
as  readily.  They  had  a  vast  capacity  for  parrot-like  repeti- 
tion, and  caught  his  long  words  so  quickly,  and  repeated  them 
so  volubly,  with  but  slight  comprehension  of  their  meaning, 
that  his  sensitive  conscience  shrank  from  using  them,  and  he 
was  forced  back  upon  a  rude  plainness  of  speech  which  was 
a  pain  to  his  pedagogic  ears.  Where  he  had  once  said, 
"  Demean  yourselves  with  sobriety,"  he  now  said,  "  Don't  get 
drunk."  He  would  have  fared  better  if  he  had  learned  to 
say  "  uncle  "  and  "  aunty,"  or  "  maumer,"  in  the  familiar 
Southern  fashion.  But  he  had  no  knowledge  of  the  customs  ; 
how  could  he  have  ?  He  could  only  blunder  on  in  his  slow 
Northern  way. 

His  cabin  stood  in  the  pine  forest,  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  settlement;  he  had  allowed  himself  that  grace.  There 
was  a  garden  around  it,  where  Northern  flowers  came  up 
after  a  while — a  little  pale,  perhaps,  like  English  ladies  in  In- 
dia, but  doubly  beautiful  and  dear  to  exiled  eyes.  The  school- 
master had  cherished  from  the  first  a  wish  for  a  cotton-field 
— a  cotton-field  of  his  own.  To  him  a  cotton-field  repre- 
sented the  South — a  cotton-field  in  the  hot  sunshine,  with  a 
gang  of  slaves  toiling  under  the  lash  of  an  overseer.  This 
might  have  been  a  fancy  picture,  and  it  might  not.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  real  to  him.  There  was,  however,  no  overseer 
now,  and  no  lash ;  no  slaves  and  very  little  toil.  The  negroes 
would  work  only  when  they  pleased,  and  that  was  generally 
not  at  all.  There  was  no  doubt  but  that  they  were  almost 
hopelessly  improvident  and  lazy.  "  Entirely  so,"  said  the 
planters.  "  Not  quite,"  said  the  Northern  schoolmaster.  And 
therein  lay  the  difference  between  them. 

David  lighted  his  fire  of  pitch-pine,  spread  his  little  table, 
and  began  to  cook  his  supper  carefully.  When  it  was  nearly 
ready,  he  heard  a  knock  at  his  gate.  Two  representative 
specimens  of  his  scholars  were  waiting  without — Jim,  a  field- 
hand,  and  a  woman  named  Esther,  who  had  been  a  house- 


258  KING  DAVID. 

servant  in  a  planter's  family.  Jim  had  come  "  to  borry  an 
axe,"  and  Esther  to  ask  for  medicine  for  a  sick  child. 

"  Where  is  your  own  axe,  Jim  ?  "  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Somehow  et's  rusty,  sah.  Dey  gets  rusty  mighty 
quick." 

"  Of  course,  because  you  always  leave  them  out  in  the 
rain.  When  will  you  learn  to  take  care  of  your  axes  ?  " 

"  Don'  know,  mars." 

"  I  have  told  you  not  to  call  me  master,"  said  David.  "  I 
am  not  your  master." 

"  You's  schoolmars,  I  reckon,"  answered  Jim,  grinning  at 
his  repartee. 

"  Well,  Jim,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  relaxing  into  a  smile, 
"  you  have  the  best  of  it  this  time ;  but  you  know  quite  well 
what  I  mean.  You  can  take  the  axe ;  but  bring  it  back  to- 
night. And  you  must  see  about  getting  a  new  one  immedi- 
ately ;  there  is  something  to  begin  with. — Now,  Esther,  what 
is  it  ?  Your  boy  sick  ?  Probably  it  is  because  you  let  him 
drink  the  water  out  of  that  swampy  pool.  I  warned  you." 

"  Yes,  sah,"  said  the  woman  impassively. 

She  was  a  slow,  dull-witted  creature,  who  had  executed 
her  tasks  marvelously  well  in  the  planter's  family,  never  vary- 
ing by  a  hair's  breadth  either  in  time  or  method  during  long 
years.  Freed,  she  was  lost  at  once;  if  she  had  not  been 
swept  along  by  her  companions,  she  would  have  sat  down 
dumbly  by  the  wayside,  and  died.  The  schoolmaster  offered 
supper  to  both  of  his  guests.  Jim  took  a  seat  at  the  table  at 
once,  nothing  loath,  and  ate  and  drank,  talking  all  the  time 
with  occasional  flashes  of  wit,  and  an  unconscious  suggestion 
of  ferocity  in  the  way  he  hacked  and  tore  the  meat  with  his 
clasp-knife  and  his  strong  white  teeth.  Esther  stood  ;  no- 
thing could  induce  her  to  sit  in  the  master's  presence.  She 
ate  and  drank  quietly,  and  dropped  a  courtesy  whenever  he 
spoke  to  her,  not  from  any  especial  respect  or  gratitude,  how- 
ever, but  from  habit.  "  I  may  possibly  teach  the  man  some- 
thing," thought  the  schoolmaster ;  "  but  what  a  terrible  crea- 


KING  DAVID. 


259 


ture  to  turn  loose  in  the  world,  with  power  in  his  hand  ! 
Hundreds  of  these  men  will  die,  nay,  must  die  violent  deaths 
before  their  people  can  learn  what  freedom  means,  and  what 
it  does  not  mean.  As  for  the  woman,  it  is  hopeless ;  she  can 
not  learn.  But  her  child  can.  In  truth,  our  hope  is  in  the 
children." 

And  then  he  threw  away  every  atom  of  the  food,  washed 
his  dishes,  made  up  the  fire,  and  went  back  to  the  beginning 
again  and  cooked  a  second  supper.  For  he  still  shrank  from 
personal  contact  with  the  other  race.  A  Southerner  would 
have  found  it  impossible  to  comprehend  the  fortitude  it  re- 
quired for  the  New-Englander  to  go  through  his  daily  rounds 
among  them.  He  did  his  best ;  but  it  was  duty,  not  liking. 
Supper  over,  he  went  to  the  schoolhouse  again :  in  the  even- 
ings he  taught  the  old  people.  It  was  an  odd  sight  to  note 
them  as  they  followed  the  letters  with  a  big,  crooked  forefin- 
ger, slowly  spelling  out  words  of  three  letters.  They  spelled 
with  their  whole  bodies,  stooping  over  the  books  which  lay 
before  them  until  their  old  grizzled  heads  and  gay  turbans 
looked  as  if  they  were  set  on  the  table  by  the  chins  in  a 
long  row.  Patiently  the  master  taught  them  ;  they  had  gone 
no  further  then  "  cat "  in  five  long  months.  He  made  the 
letters  for  them  on  the  blackboard  again  and  again,  but  the 
treat  of  the  evening  was  the  making  of  these  letters  on  the 
board  by  the  different  scholars  in  turn.  "  Now,  Dinah — B." 
And  old  Dinah  would  hobble  up  proudly,  and,  with  much 
screwing  of  her  mouth  and  tongue,  and  many  long  hesita- 
tions, produce  something  which  looked  like  a  figure  eight 
gone  mad.  Joe  had  his  turn  next,  and  he  would  make,  per- 
haps, an  H  for  a  D.  The  master  would  go  back  and  explain 
to  him  carefully  the  difference,  only  to  find  at  the  end  of  ten 
minutes  that  the  whole  class  was  hopelessly  confused :  Joe's 
mistake  had  routed  them  all.  There  was  one  pair  of  spec- 
tacles among  the  old  people :  these  were  passed  from  hand 
to  hand  as  the  turn  came,  not  from  necessity  always,  but  as 
an  adjunct  to  the  dignity  of  reading. 


260  KING  DAVID. 

"Never  mind  the  glasses,  Tom.  Surely  you  caii  spell 
'  bag '  without  them." 

"Dey  helps,  Mars  King  David,"  replied  old  Tom  with 
solemn  importance.  He  then  adorned  himself  with  the  spec- 
tacles, and  spelled  it — "  g,  a,  b." 

But  the  old  people  enjoyed  their  lesson  immensely;  no 
laughter,  no  joking"  broke  the  solemnity  of  the  scene,  and 
they  never  failed  to  make  an  especial  toilet — much  shirt-col- 
lar for  the  old  men,  and  clean  turbans  for  the  old  women. 
They  seemed  to  be  generally  half-crippled,  poor  old  crea- 
tures ;  slow  in  their  movements  as  tortoises,  and  often  un- 
wieldy ;  their  shoes  were  curiosities  of  patches,  rags,  strings, 
and  carpeting.  But  sometimes  a  fine  old  black  face  was 
lifted  from  the  slow-moving  bulk,  and  from  under  wrinkled 
eyelids  keen  sharp  eyes  met  the  master's,  as  intelligent  as  his 
own. 

There  was  no  church  proper  in  Jubilee.  On  Sundays,  the 
people,  who  were  generally  Baptists,  assembled  in  the  school- 
room, where  services  were  conducted  by  a  brother  who  had 
"  de  gif '  ob  preachin',"  and  who  poured  forth  a  flood  of  Scrip- 
ture phrases  with  a  volubility,  incoherence,  and  earnestness 
alike  extraordinary.  Presbyterian  David  attended  these  ser- 
vices, not  only  for  the  sake  of  example,  but  also  because  he 
steadfastly  believed  in  "  the  public  assembling  of  ourselves 
together  for  the  worship  of  Almighty  God." 

"  Perhaps  they  understand  him,"  he  thought,  noting  the 
rapt  black  faces,  "  and  I,  at  least,  have  no  right  to  judge 
them — I,  who,  with  all  the  lights  I  have  had,  still  find  myself 
unable  to  grasp  the  great  doctrine  of  Election."  For  David 
had  been  bred  in  Calvinism,  and  many  a  night,  when  younger 
and  more  hopeful  of  arriving  at  finalities,  had  he  wrestled 
with  its  problems.  He  was  not  so  sure,  now,  of  arriving  at 
finalities  either  in  belief  or  in  daily  life ;  but  he  thought  the 
fault  lay  with  himself,  and  deplored  it. 

The  Yankee  schoolmaster  was,  of  course,  debarred  from 
intercourse  with  those  of  his  own  color  in  the  neighborhood. 


KING  DAVID.  261 

There  were  no  "poor  whites  "  there  ;  he  was  spared  the  sight 
of  their  long,  clay-colored  faces,  lank  yellow  hair,  and  half- 
open  mouths  ;  he  was  not  brought  into  contact  with  the  igno- 
rance and  dense  self-conceit  of  this  singular  class.  The 
whites  of  the  neighborhood  were  planters,  and  they  regarded 
the  schoolmaster  as  an  interloper,  a  fanatic,  a  knave,  or  a 
fool,  according  to  their  various  degrees  of  bitterness.  The 
phantom  of  a  cotton-field  still  haunted  the  master,  and  he 
often  walked  by  the  abandoned  fields  of  these  planters,  and 
noted  them  carefully.  In  addition  to  his  fancy,  there  was 
now  another  motive.  Things  were  not  going  well  at  Jubilee, 
and  he  was  anxious  to  try  whether  the  men  would  not  work 
for  good  wages,  paid  regularly,  and  for  their  Northern  teacher 
and  friend.  Thus  it  happened  that  Harnett  Ammerton,  re- 
tired planter,  one  afternoon  perceived  a  stranger  walking  up 
the  avenue  that  led  to  his  dilapidated  mansion  ;  and  as  he 
was  near-sighted,  and  as  any  visitor  was,  besides,  a  welcome 
interruption  in  his  dull  day,  he  went  out  upon  the  piazza  to 
meet  him ;  and  not  until  he  had  offered  a  chair  did  he  rec- 
ognize his  guest.  He  said  nothing ;  for  he  was  in  his  own 
house ;  but  a  gentleman  can  freeze  the  atmosphere  around 
him  even  in  his  own  house,  and  this  he  did.  The  school- 
master stated  his  errand  simply :  he  wished  to  rent  one  of  the 
abandoned  cotton-fields  for  a  year.  The  planter  could  have 
answered  with  satisfaction  that  his  fields  might  lie  for  ever 
untilled  before  Yankee  hands  should  touch  them  ;  but  he  was 
a  poor  man  now,  and  money  was  money.  He  endured  his  visit- 
or, and  he  rented  his  field  ;  and,  with  the  perplexed  feelings  of 
his  class,  he  asked  himself  how  it  was,  how  it  could  be,  that  a 
man  like  that — yes,  like  that — had  money,  while  he  himself  had 
none  !  David  had  but  little  money — a  mere  handful  to  throw 
away  in  a  day,  the  planter  would  have  thought  in  the  lavish 
old  times  ;  but  David  had  the  New  England  thrift. 

"  I  am  hoping  that  the  unemployed  hands  over  at  Jubilee 
will  cultivate  this  field  for  me,"  he  said — "  for  fair  wages,  of 
course.  I  know  nothing  of  cotton  myself." 


262  KING  DAVID. 

"  You  will  be  disappointed,"  said  the  planter. 

"  But  they  must  live ;  they  must  lay  up  something  for  the 
winter." 

"  They  do  not  know  enough  to  live.  They  might  exist, 
perhaps,  in  Africa,  as  the  rest  of  their  race  exists ;  but  here, 
in  this  colder  climate,  they  must  be  taken  care  of,  worked, 
and  fed,  as  we  work  and  feed  our  horses — precisely  in  the 
same  way." 

"  I  can  not  agree  with  you,"  replied  David,  a  color  rising 
in  his  thin  face.  "  They  are  idle  and  shiftless,  I  acknowledge 
that ;  but  is  it  not  the  natural  result  of  generations  of  servi- 
tude and  ignorance  ?  " 

"  They  have  not  capacity  for  anything  save  ignorance." 

"You  do  not  know  then,  perhaps,  that  I — that  I  am  try- 
ing to  educate  those  who  are  over  at  Jubilee,"  said  David. 
There  was  no  aggressive  confidence  in  his  voice  ;  he  knew 
that  he  had  accomplished  little  as  yet.  He  looked  wistfully 
at  his  host  as  he  spoke. 

Harnett  Ammerton  was  a  born  patrician.  Poor,  homely, 
awkward  David  felt  this  in  every  nerve  as  he  sat  there ;  for 
he  loved  beauty  in  spite  of  himself,  and  in  spite  of  his  belief 
that  it  was  a  tendency  of  the  old  Adam.  (Old  Adam  has 
such  nice  things  to  bother  his  descendants  with ;  almost  a 
monopoly,  if  we  are  to  believe  some  creeds.)  So  now  David 
tried  not  to  be  influenced  by  the  fine  face  before  him,  and 
steadfastly  went  on  to  sow  a  little  seed,  if  possible,  even  upon 
this  prejudiced  ground. 

"  I  have  a  school  over  there,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  the  kind,  I  believe,"  replied 
the  old  planter,  as  though  Jubilee  Town  were  a  thousand 
miles  away,  instead  of  a  blot  upon  his  own  border.  "  May  I 
ask  how  you  are  succeeding  ?  " 

There  was  a  fine  irony  in  the  question.  David  felt  it, 
but  replied  courageously  that  success,  he  hoped,  would  come 
in  time. 

"  And  I,  young  man,  hope  that  it  will  never  come  !    The 


KING  DAVID.  263 

negro  with  power  in  his  hand,  which  you  have  given  him, 
with  a  little  smattering  of  knowledge  in  his  shallow,  crafty 
brain— a  knowledge  which  you  and  your  kind  are  now  striv- 
ing to  give  him — will  become  an  element  of  more  danger  in 
this  land  than  it  has  ever  known  before.  You  Northerners 
do  not  understand  the  blacks.  They  are  an  inferior  race  by 
nature;  God  made  them  so.  And  God  forgive  those  (al- 
though I  never  can)  who  have  placed  them  over  us — yes, 
virtually  over  us,  their  former  masters — poor  ignorant  crea- 
tures ! " 

At  this  instant  an  old  negro  came  up  the  steps  with  an 
armful  of  wood,  and  the  eye  of  the  Northerner  noted  (was 
forced  to  note)  the  contrast.  There  sat  the  planter,  his  head 
crowned  with  silver  hair,  his  finely  chiseled  face  glowing  with 
the  warmth  of  his  indignant  words  ;  and  there  passed  the  old 
slave,  bent  and  black,  his  low  forehead  and  broad  animal  fea- 
tures seeming  to  typify  scarcely  more  intelligence  than  that 
of  the  dog  that  followed  him.  The  planter  spoke  to  the  ser- 
vant in  his  kindly  way  as  he  passed,  and  the  old  black  face 
lighted  with  pleasure.  This,  too,  the  schoolmaster's  sensitive 
mind  noted  :  none  of  his  pupils  looked  at  him  with  anything 
like  that  affection.  "  But  it  is  right  they  should  be  freed — it 
is  right,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  walked  back  to  Jubilee ; 
"  and  to  that  belief  will  I  cling  as  long  as  I  have  my  being. 
It  is  right."  And  then  he  came  into  Jubilee,  and  found  three 
of  his  freedmen  drunk  and  quarreling  in  the  street. 

Heretofore  the  settlement,  poor  and  forlorn  as  it  was,  had 
escaped  the  curse  of  drunkenness.  No  liquor  was  sold  in  the 
vicinity,  and  David  had  succeeded  in  keeping  his  scholars 
from  wandering  aimlessly  about  the  country  from  place  to 
place — often  the  first  use  the  blacks  made  of  their  freedom. 
Jubilee  did  not  go  to  the  liquor ;  but,  at  last,  the  liquor  had 
come  to  Jubilee.  Shall  they  not  have  all  rights  and  privileges, 
these  new-born  citizens  of  ours  ?  The  bringer  of  these  doc- 
trines, and  of  the  fluids  to  moisten  them,  was  a  white  man, 
one  of  that  class  which  has  gone  down  on  the  page  of  Ameri- 


264  KING  DAVID. 

can  history,  knighted  with  the  initials  C.  B.  "  The  Captain  " 
the  negroes  called  him ;  and  he  was  highly  popular  already, 
three  hours  of  the  Captain  being  worth  three  weeks  of  Da- 
vid, as  far  as  familiarity  went.  The  man  was  a  glib-tongued, 
smartly  dressed  fellow,  well  supplied  with  money  ;  and  his 
errand  was,  of  course,  to  influence  the  votes  at  the  next  elec- 
tion. David,  meanwhile,  had  so  carefully  kept  all  talk  of 
politics  from  his  scholars  that  they  hardly  knew  that  an  elec- 
tion was  near.  It  became  now  a  contest  between  the  two 
higher  intelligences.  If  the  schoolmaster  had  but  won  the 
easily  won  and  strong  affections  of  his  pupils !  But,  in  all 
those  months,  he  had  gained  only  a  dutiful  attention.  They 
did  not  even  respect  him  as  they  had  respected  their  old  mas- 
ters, and  the  cause  (poor  David  !)  was  that  very  thrift  and  in- 
dustry which  he  relied  upon  an  an  example. 

"Ole  Mars  Ammerton  wouldn't  wash  his  dishes  ef  dey 
was  nebber  washed,"  confided  Maum  June  to  Elsy,  as  they 
caught  sight  of  David's  shining  pans. 

The  schoolmaster  could  have  had  a  retinue  of  servants 
for  a  small  price,  or  no  price  at  all ;  but,  to  tell  a  truth  which 
he  never  told,  he  could  not  endure  them  about  him. 

"  I  must  have  one  spot  to  myself,"  he  said  feverishly,  after 
he  had  labored  all  day  among  them,  teaching,  correcting  un- 
tidy ways,  administering  simple  medicines,  or  binding  up  a 
bruised  foot.  But  he  never  dreamed  that  this  very  isolation 
of  his  personality,  this  very  thrift,  were  daily  robbing  him  of 
the  influence  which  he  so  earnestly  longed  to  possess.  In 
New  England  every  man's  house  was  his  castle,  and  every 
man's  hands  were  thrifty.  He  forgot  the  easy  familiarity,  the 
lordly  ways,  the  crowded  households,  and  the  royal  careless- 
ness to  which  the  slaves  had  always  been  accustomed  in  their 
old  masters'  homes. 

At  first  the  Captain  attempted  intimacy. 

"  No  reason  why  you  and  me  shouldn't  work  together," 
he  said  with  a  confidential  wink.  "  This  thing's  being  done 
all  over  the  South,  and  easy  done,  too.  Now's  the  time  for 


KING  DAVID.  265 

smart  chaps  like  us — '  transition, 'you  know.  The  old  South- 
erners are  mad,  and  won't  come  forward,  so  we'll  just  sail  in 
and  have  a  few  years  of  it.  When  they're  ready  to  come 
back — why,  we'll  give  'em  up  the  place  again,  of  course,  if 
our  pockets  are  well  lined.  Come,  now,  just  acknowledge 
that  the  negroes  have  got  to  have  somebody  to  lead  'em." 

"  It  shall  not  be  such  as  you,"  said  David  indignantly. 
"  See  those  two  men  quarreling  ;  that  is  the  work  of  the  liquor 
you  have  given  them  !  " 

"  They've  as  good  a  right  to  their  liquor  as  other  men 
have,"  replied  the  Captain  carelessly ;  "  and  that's  what  I  tell 
'em ;  they  ain't  slaves  now — they're  free.  Well,  boss,  sorry 
you  don't  like  my  idees,  but  can't  help  it ;  must  go  ahead. 
Remember,  I  offered  you  a  chance,  and  you  would  not  take  it. 
Morning." 

The  five  months  had  grown  into  six  and  seven,  and  Jubi- 
lee Town  was  known  far  and  wide  as  a  dangerous  and  disor- 
derly neighborhood.  The  old  people  and  the  children  still 
came  to  school,  but  the  young  men  and  boys  had  deserted  in 
a  body.  The  schoolmaster's  cotton-field  was  neglected ;  he 
did  a  little  there  himself  every  day,  but  the  work  was  novel, 
and  his  attempts  were  awkward  and  slow.  One  afternoon 
Harnett  Ammerton  rode  by  on  horseback ;  the  road  passed 
near  the  angle  of  the  field  where  the  schoolmaster  was  at 
work. 

"  How  is  your  experiment  succeeding  ?  "  said  the  planter, 
with  a  little  smile  of  amused  scorn  as  he  saw  the  lonely 
figure. 

"  Not  very  well,"  replied  David. 

He  paused  and  looked  up  earnestly  into  the  planter's  face. 
Here  was  a  man  who  had  lived  among  the  blacks  all  his  life, 
and  knew  them  :  if  he  would  but  give  honest  advice !  The 
schoolmaster  was  sorely  troubled  that  afternoon.  Should  he 
speak  ?  He  would  at  least  try. 

"  Mr.  Ammerton,"  he  said,  "  do  you  intend  to  vote  at  the 
approaching  election  ?  " 
12 


266  KING  DAVID. 

"  No,"  replied  the  planter ;  "  nor  any  person  of  my  ac- 
quaintance." 

"  Then  incompetent,  and,  I  fear,  evil-minded  men  will  be 
put  into  office." 

"  Of  course — the  certain  result  of  negro  voting." 

"  But  if  you,  sir,  and  the  class  to  which  you  belong,  would 
exert  yourselves,  I  am  inclined  to  think  much  might  be  done. 
The  breach  will  only  grow  broader  every  year;  act  now, 
while  you  have  still  influence  left." 

"  Then  you  think  that  we  have  influence  ? "  said  the 
planter. 

He  was  curious  concerning  the  ideas  of  this  man,  who, 
although  not  like  the  typical  Yankee  exactly,  was  yet  plainly  a 
fanatic  ;  while  as  to  dress  and  air — why,  Zip,  his  old  valet,  had 
more  polish. 

"  I  know  at  least  that  I  have  none,"  said  David.  Then  he 
came  a  step  nearer.  "  Do  you  think,  sir,"  he  began  slowly, 
"that  I  have  gone  to  work  in  the  wrong  way?  Would  it 
have  been  wiser  to  have  obtained  some  post  of  authority  over 
them — the  office  of  justice  of  the  peace,  for  instance,  with 
power  of  arrest  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  said  the  planter  curtly,  touch- 
ing his  horse  with  his  whip  and  riding  on.  He  had  no  inten- 
tion of  stopping  to  discuss  ways  and  means  with  an  abolition 
schoolmaster ! 

Things  grew  from  bad  to  wrorse  at  Jubilee.  Most  of  the 
men  had  been  field-hands;  there  was  but  little  intelligence 
among  them.  The  few  bright  minds  among  David's  pupils 
caught  the  specious  arguments  of  the  Captain,  and  repeated 
them  to  the  others.  The  Captain  explained  how  much  power 
they  held ;  the  Captain  laid  before  them  glittering  plans  ;  the 
Captain  said  that  by  good  rights  each  family  ought  to  have  a 
plantation  to  repay  them  for  their  years  of  enforced  labor  ;  the 
Captain  promised  them  a  four-story  brick  college  for  their 
boys,  which  was  more  than  King  David  had  ever  promised, 
teacher  though  he  was.  They  found  out  that  they  were  tired 


KING  DAVID.  267 

of  King  David  and  his  narrow  talk ;  and  they  went  over  to 
Hildore  Corners,  where  a  new  store  had  been  opened,  which 
contained,  among  other  novelties,  a  bar.  This  was  one  of 
the  Captain's  benefactions.  "  If  you  pay  your  money  for  it, 
you've  as  good  a  right  to  your  liquor  as  any  one,  I  guess,"  he 
observed.  "  Not  that  it's  anything  to  me,  of  course ;  but  I 
allow  I  like  to  see  fair  play  !  " 

It  was  something  to  him,  however :  the  new  store  had  a 
silent  partner ;  and  this  was  but  one  of  many  small  and  silent 
enterprises  in  which  he  was  engaged  throughout  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

The  women  of  Jubilee,  more  faithful  than  the  men,  still 
sent  their  children  to  school ;  but  they  did  it  with  discouraged 
hearts,  poor  things  !  Often  now  they  were  seen  with  band- 
aged heads  and  bruised  bodies,  the  result  of  drunken  blows 
from  husband  or  brother ;  and,  left  alone,  they  were  obliged 
to  labor  all  day  to  get  the  poor  food  they  ate,  and  to  keep 
clothes  on  their  children.  Patient  by  nature,  they  lived  along 
as  best  they  could,  and  toiled  in  their  small  fields  like  horses ; 
but  the  little  prides,  the  vague,  grotesque  aspirations  and 
hopes  that  had  come  to  them  with  their  freedom,  gradually 
faded  away.  "  A  blue-painted  front  do',"  "  a  black-silk  apron 
with  red  ribbons,"  "to  make  a  minister  of  little  Job,"  and  "a 
real  crock'ry  pitcher,"  were  wishes  unspoken  now.  The  thing 
was  only  how  to  live  from  day  to  day,  and  keep  the  patched 
clothes  together.  In  the  mean  while  trashy  finery  was  sold 
at  the  new  store,  and  the  younger  girls  wore  gilt  ear-rings. 

The  master,  toiling  on  at  his  vain  task,  was  at  his  wit's 
end.  "  They  will  not  work ;  before  long  they  must  steal,"  he 
said.  He  brooded  and  thought,  and  at  last  one  morning  he 
came  to  a  decision.  The  same  day  in  the  afternoon  he  set 
out  for  Hildore  Corners.  He  had  thought  of  a  plan.  As  he 
was  walking  rapidly  through  the  pine-woods  Harnett  Ammer- 
ton  on  horseback  passed  him.  This  time  the  Northerner 
had  no  questions  to  ask — nay,  he  almost  hung  his  head,  so 
ashamed  was  he  of  the  reputation  that  had  attached  itself  to 


268  KING  DAVID. 

the  field  of  his  labors.  But  the  planter  reined  in  his  horse 
when  he  saw  who  it  was  :  he  was  the  questioner  now. 

"  Schoolmaster,"  he  began,  "  in  the  name  of  all  the  white 
families  about  here,  I  really  must  ask  if  you  can  do  nothing  to 
keep  in  order  those  miserable,  drinking,  ruffianly  negroes  of 
yours  over  at  Jubilee  ?  Why,  we  shall  all  be  murdered  in  our 
beds  before  long !  Are  you  aware  of  the  dangerous  spirit 
they  have  manifested  lately  ?  " 

"  Only  too  well,"  said  David. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?    How  will  it  end  ?  " 

"  God  knows." 

"  God  knows  !  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?  Of  course 
he  knows ;  but  the  question  is,  Do  you  know  ?  You  have 
brought  the  whole  trouble  down  upon  our  heads  by  your  con- 
founded insurrectionary  school !  Just  as  I  told  you,  your  ne- 
groes, with  the  little  smattering  of  knowledge  you  have  given 
them,  are  now  the  most  dangerous,  riotous,,  thieving,  murder- 
ing rascals  in  the  district." 

"  They  are  bad  ;  but  it  is  not  the  work  of  the  school,  I 
hope." 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  the  planter  angrily. 

"  They  have  been  led  astray  lately,  Mr.  Ammerton ;  a  per- 
son has  come  among  them — " 

"  Another  Northerner." 

/'Yes,"  said  David,  a  flush  rising  in  his  cheek;  "but  not 
all  Northerners  are  like  this  man,  I  trust." 

"  Pretty  much  all  we  see  are.    Look  at  the  State." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it ;  I  suppose  time  alone  can  help  matters," 
said  the  troubled  teacher. 

"  Give  up  your  school,  and  come  and  join  us,"  said  the 
planter  abruptly.  "You,  at  least,  are  honest  in  your  mis- 
takes. We  are  going  to  form  an  association  for  our  own  pro- 
tection ;  join  with  us.  You  can  teach  my  grandsons  if  you 
like,  provided  you  do  not  put  any  of  your — your  fanaticism 
into  them." 

This  was  an  enormous  concession  for  Harnett  Ammerton 


KING  DAVID.  269 

to  make;  something  in  the  schoolmaster's  worn  face  had 
drawn  it  out. 

"Thank  you,"  said  David  slowly;  "it  is  kindly  meant, 
sir.  But  I  can  not  give  up  my  work.  I  came  down  to  help 
the  freedmen,  and — 

"  Then  stay  with  them,"  said  the  planter,  doubly  angry 
for  the  very  kindness  of  the  moment  before.  "  I  thought  you 
were  a  decent-living  white  man,  according  to  your  fashion, 
but  I  see  I  was  mistaken.  Dark  days  are  coming,  and  you 
turn  your  back  upon  those  of  your  own  color  and  side  with 
the  slaves !  Go  and  herd  with  your  negroes.  But,  look  you, 
sir,  we  are  prepared.  We  will  shoot  down  any  one  found 
upon  our  premises  after  dark — shoot  him  down  like  a  dog. 
It  has  come  to  that,  and,  by  Heaven !  we  shall  protect  our- 
selves." 

He  rode  on.  David  sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand.  Dark  days  were 
coming,  as  the  planter  had  said ;  nay,  were  already  there. 
Was  he  in  any  way  responsible  for  them  ?  He  tried  to  think. 
"  I  know  not,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  but  I  must  still  go  on  and 
do  the  best  I  can.  I  must  carry  out  my  plan."  He  rose  and 
went  forward  to  the  Corners. 

A  number  of  Jubilee  men  were  lounging  near  the  new 
store,  and  one  of  them  was  reading  aloud  from  a  newspaper 
which  the  Captain  had  given  him.  He  had  been  David's 
brightest  scholar,  and  he  could  read  readily ;  but  what  he 
read  was  inflammable  matter  of  the  worst  kind,  a  speech 
which  had  been  written  for  just  such  purposes,  and  which 
was  now  being  circulated  through  the  district.  Mephisto- 
pheles  in  the  form  of  Harnett  Ammerton  seemed  to  whisper 
in  the  schoolmaster's  ears,  "Do  you  take  pride  to  yourself 
that  you  taught  that  man  to  read  ?  " 

The  reader  stopped ;  he  had  discovered  the  new  auditor. 
The  men  stared ;  they  had  never  seen  the  master  at  the  Cor- 
ners before.  They  drew  together  and  waited.  He  approached 
them,  and  paused  a  moment ;  then  he  began  to  speak. 


2/o  KING  DAVID. 

"  I  have  come,  friends,"  he  said,  "  to  make  a  proposition 
to  you.  You,  on  your  side,  have  nothing  laid  up  for  the  win- 
ter, and  I,  on  my  side,  am  anxious  to  have  your  work.  I 
have  a  field,  you  know,  a  cotton-field ;  what  do  you  say  to 
going  to  work  there,  all  of  you,  for  a  month  ?  I  will  agree  to 
pay  you  more  than  any  man  about  here  pays,  and  you  shall 
have  the  cash  every  Monday  morning  regularly.  We  will 
hold  a  meeting  over  at  Jubilee,  and  you  shall  choose  your 
own  overseer ;  for  I  am  very  ignorant  about  cotton-fields ;  I 
must  trust  to  you.  What  do  you  say?  " 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  but  no  one  spoke. 

"  Think  of  your  little  children  without  clothes." 

Still  silence. 

"  I  have  not  succeeded  among  you,"  continued  the  teacher, 
"  as  well  as  I  hoped  to  succeed.  You  do  not  come  to  school 
any  more,  and  I  suppose  it  is  because  you  do  not  like  me." 

Something  like  a  murmur  of  dissent  came  from  the  group. 
The  voice  went  on  : 

"  I  have  thought  of  something  I  can  do,  however.  I  can 
write  to  the  North  for  another  teacher  to  take  my  place,  and 
he  shall  be  a  man  of  your  own  race ;  one  who  is  educated, 
and,  if  possible,  also  a  clergyman  of  your  own  faith.  You 
can  have  a  little  church  then,  and  Sabbath  services.  As  soon 
as  he  comes,  I  will  yield  my  place  to  him ;  but,  in  the  mean 
time,  will  you  not  cultivate  that  field  for  me  ?  I  ask  it  as  a 
favor.  It  will  be  but  for  a  little  while,  for,  when  the  new 
teacher  comes,  I  shall  go — unless,  indeed,"  he  added,  looking 
around  with  a  smile  that  was  almost  pathetic  in  its  appeal, 
"  you  should  wish  me  to  stay." 

There  was  no  answer.  He  had  thrown  out  this  last  little 
test  question  suddenly.  It  had  failed. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  not  succeeded  better  at  Jubilee,"  he 
said  after  a  short  pause — and  his  voice  had  altered  in  spite  of 
his  self-control — "  but  at  least  you  will  believe,  I  hope,  that  I 
have  tried." 

"  Dat's  so  "  ;  "  Dat's  de  trouf,"  said  one  or  two ;  the  rest 


KING  DAVID.  271 

stood  irresolute.  But  at  this  moment  a  new  speaker  came 
forward  ;  it  was  the  Captain,  who  had  been  listening  in  am- 
bush. 

"  All  gammon,  boys,  all  gammon,"  he  began,  seating  him- 
self familiarly  among  them  on  the  fence-rail.  "  The  season 
for  planting's  over,  and  your  work  wrould  be  thrown  away  in 
that  field  of  his.  He  knows  it,  too ;  he  only  wants  to  see  you 
marching  around  to  his  whistling.  And  he  pays  you  double 
wages,  does  he  ?  Double  wages  for  perfectly  useless  work ! 
Doesn't  that  show,  clear  as  daylight,  what  he's  up  to  ?  If  he 
hankers  so  after  your  future — your  next  winter,  and  all  that — 
why  don't  he  give  yer  the  money  right  out,  if  he's  so  flush  ? 
But  no ;  he  wants  to  put  you  to  work,  and  that's  all  there  is 
of  it.  He  can't  deny  a  word  I've  said,  either." 

"  I  do  not  deny  that  I  wish  you  to  work,  friends,"  began 
David — 

"  There  !  he  tells  yer  so  himself,"  said  the  Captain ;  "he 
wants  yer  back  in  yer  old  places  again.  /  seen  him  talking 
to  old  Ammerton  the  other  day.  Give  'em  a  chance,  them 
two  classes,  and  they'll  have  you  slaves  a  second  time  before 
you  know  it." 

"  Never  !  "  cried  David.  "  Friends,  it  is  not  possible  that 
you  can  believe  this  man  !  We  have  given  our  lives  to  make 
you  free,"  he  added  passionately;  "we  came  down  among 
you,  bearing  your  freedom  in  our  hands — " 

"  Come,  now — I'm  a  Northerner  too,  ain't  I  ?  "  interrupted 
the  Captain.  "  There's  two  kinds  of  Northerners,  boys.  / 
was  in  the  army,  and  that's  more  than  he  can  say.  Much 
freedom  he  brought  down  in  his  hands,  safe  at  home  in  his 
narrer-minded,  penny-scraping  village !  He  wasn't  in  the 
army  at  all,  boys,  and  he  can't  tell  you  he  was." 

This  was  true ;  the  schoolmaster  could  not.  Neither  could 
he  tell  them  what  was  also  true,  namely,  that  the  Captain  had 
been  an  attachtvi  a  sutler's  tent,  and  nothing  more.  But  the 
sharp-witted  Captain  had  the  whole  history  of  his  opponent 
at  his  fingers'  ends. 


272  KING  DAVID. 

"  Come  along,  boys,"  said  this  jovial  leader ;  "  we'll  have 
suthin'  to  drink  the  health  of  this  tremenjous  soldier  in — this 
fellow  as  fought  so  hard  for  you  and  for  your  freedom.  I  al- 
ways thought  he  looked  like  a  fighting  man,  with  them  fine 
broad  shoulders  of  his ! "  He  laughed  loudly,  and  the  men 
trooped  into  the  store  after  him.  The  schoolmaster,  alone 
outside,  knew  that  his  chance  was  gone.  He  turned  away 
and  took  the  homeward  road.  One  of  his  plans  had  failed ; 
there  remained  now  nothing  save  to  carry  out  the  other. 

Prompt  as  usual,  he  wrote  his  letter  as  soon  as  he  reached 
his  cabin,  asking  that  another  teacher,  a  colored  man  if  pos- 
sible, should  be  sent  down  to  take  his  place. 

"  I  fear  I  am  not  fitted  for  the  work,"  he  wrote.  "  I  take 
shame  to  myself  that  this  is  so ;  yet,  being  so,  I  must  not  hin- 
der by  any  disappointed  strivings  the  progress  of  the  great 
mission.  I  will  go  back  among  my  own  kind ;  it  may  be  that 
some  whom  I  shall  teach  may  yet  succeed  where  I  have  failed." 
The  letter  could  not  go  until  the  next  morning.  He  went  out 
and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  forest.  A  sudden  impulse 
came  to  him ;  he  crossed  over  to  the  schoolhouse  and  rang 
the  little  tinkling  belfry-bell.  His  evening  class  had  disbanded 
some  time  before ;  the  poor  old  aunties  and  uncles  crept  off 
to  bed  very  early  now,  in  order  to  be  safely  out  of  the  way 
when  their  disorderly  sons  and  grandsons  came  home.  But 
something  moved  the  master  to  see  them  all  together  once 
more.  They  came  across  the  green,  wondering,  and  entered 
the  schoolroom ;  some  of  the  younger  wives  came  too,  and 
the  children.  The  master  waited,  letter  in  hand.  When  they 
were  all  seated — 

"  Friends,"  he  said,  "  I  have  called  you  together  to  speak 
to  you  of  a  matter  which  lies  very  near  my  own  heart.  Things 
are  not  going  on  well  at  Jubilee.  The  men  drink ;  the  children 
go  in  rags.  Is  this  true  ?  " 

Groans  and  slow  assenting  nods  answered  him.  One  old 
woman  shrieked  out  shrilly,  "  It  is  de  Lord's  will,"  and  rocked 
her  body  to  and  fro. 


KING  DAVID.  273 

"  No,  it  is  not  the  Lord's  will,"  answered  the  schoolmaster 
gently ;  "  you  must  not  think  so.  You  must  strive  to  reclaim 
those  who  have  gone  astray ;  you  must  endeavor  to  inspire 
them  with  renewed  aspirations  toward  a  higher  plane  of  life ; 
you  must — I  mean,"  he  said,  correcting  himself,  "  you  must 
try  to  keep  the  men  from  going  over  to  the  Comers  and  get- 
ting drunk." 

"  But  dey  will  do  it,  sah  ;  what  can  we  do  ?  "  said  Uncle 
Scipio,  who  sat  leaning  his  chin  upon  his  crutch  and  peering 
at  the  teacher  with  sharp  intelligence  in  his  old  eyes.  "  If 
dey  won't  stay  fo'  you,  sah,  will  dey  stay  fo'  us  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  was  coming  to,"  said  the  master.  (They 
had  opened  the  subject  even  before  he  could  get  to  it !  They 
saw  it  too,  then — his  utter  lack  of  influence.)  "  I  have  not 
succeeded  here  as  I  hoped  to  succeed,  friends  ;  I  have  not  the 
influence  I  ought  to  have."  Then  he  paused.  "  Perhaps  the 
best  thing  I  can  do  will  be  to  go  away,"  he  added,  looking 
quickly  from  face  to  face  to  catch  the  expression.  But  there 
was  nothing  visible.  The  children  stared  stolidly  back,  and 
the  old  people  sat  unmoved ;  he  even  fancied  that  he  could 
detect  relief  in  the  eyes  of  one  or  two,  quickly  suppressed, 
however,  by  the  innate  politeness  of  the  race.  A  sudden  mist 
came  over  his  eyes ;  he  had  thought  that  perhaps  some  of 
them  would  care  a  little.  He  hurried  on :  "I  have  written  to 
the  North  for  a  new  teacher  for  you,  a  man  of  your  own  peo- 
ple, who  will  not  only  teach  you,  but  also,  as  a  minister,  hold 
services  on  the  Sabbath ;  you  can  have  a  little  church  of  your 
own  then.  Such  a  man  will  do  better  for  you  than  I  have 
done,  and  I  hope  you  will  like  him  " — he  was  going  to  say, 
"  better  than  you  have  liked  me,"  but  putting  down  all  thought 
of  self,  he  added,  "  and  that  his  work  among  you  will  be  abun- 
dantly blessed." 

"  Glory  !  glory ! "  cried  an  old  aunty.  "  A  color'd  preacher 
ob  our  own  !  Glory  !  glory  !  " 

Then  Uncle  Scipio  rose  slowly,  with  the  aid  of  his  crutches, 
and,  as  orator  of  the  occasion,  addressed  the  master 


274  KING  DAVID. 

"  You  see,  sah,  how  it  is  ;  you  see,  Mars  King  David,"  he 
said,  waving  his  hand  apologetically,  "  a  color'd  man  will  un- 
nerstan  us,  'specially  ef  he  hab  lib'd  at  de  Souf;  we  don't 
want  no  Nordern  free  niggahs  hyar.  But  a  'spectable  color'd 
preacher,  now,  would  be  de  makin'  ob  Jubilee,  fo'  dis  worl' 
an'  de  nex'." 

"  Fo'  dis  worl'  and  de  nex',"  echoed  the  old  woman. 

"  Our  service  to  you,  sah,  all  de  same,"  continued  Scipio, 
with  a  grand  bow  of  ceremony ;  "  but  you  hab  nebber  quite 
unnerstan  us,  sah,  nebber  quite ;  an*  you  can  nebber  do  much 
fo'  us,  sah,  on  'count  ob  dat  fack — ef  you'll  scuse  my  saying 
so.  But  it  is  de  trouf.  We  give  you  our  t'anks  and  our  con- 
gratturrurlations,  an'  we  hopes  you'll  go  j'yiul  back  to  your 
own  people,  an'  be  a  shining  light  to  'em  for  ebbermore." 

"  A  shinin'  light  for  ebbermore,"  echoed  the  rest.  One 
old  woman,  inspired  apparently  by  the  similarity  of  words, 
began  a  hymn  about  "  the  shining  shore,"  and  the  whole  as- 
sembly, thinking  no  doubt  that  it  was  an  appropriate  and 
complimentary  termination  to  the  proceedings,  joined  in  with 
all  their  might,  and  sang  the  whole  six  verses  through  with 
fervor. 

"  I  should  like  to  shake  hands  with  you  all  as  you  go  out," 
said  the  master,  when  at  last  the  song  was  ended,  "  and — and 
I  wish,  my  friends,  that  you  would  all  remember  me  in  your 
prayers  to-night  before  you  sleep." 

What  a  sight  was  that  when  the  pale  Caucasian,  with  the 
intelligence  of  generations  on  his  brow,  asked  for  the  prayers 
of  these  sons  of  Africa,  and  gently,  nay,  almost  humbly,  re- 
ceived the  pressure  of  their  black,  toil-hardened  hands  as  they 
passed  out !  They  had  taught  him  a  great  lesson,  the  lesson 
of  a  failure. 

The  schoolmaster  went  home,  and  sat  far  into  the  night, 
with  his  head  bowed  upon  his  hands.  "  Poor  worm  ! "  he 
thought — "  poor  worm  !  who  even  went  so  far  as  to  dream  of 
saying,  'Here  am  I,  Lord,  and  these  brethren  whom  thou 
hast  given  me  ! '" 


KING  DAVID.  275 

The  day  came  for  him  to  go ;  he  shouldered  his  bag  and 
started  away.  At  a  turn  in  the  road,  some  one  was  waiting 
for  him ;  it  was  dull-faced  Esther  with  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
the  common  flowers  of  her  small  garden-bed.  "  Good-by, 
Esther,"  said  the  master,  touched  almost  to  tears  by  the  sight 
of  the  solitary  little  offering. 

"  Good-by,  mars,"  said  Esther.  But  she  was  not  moved  ; 
she  had  come  out  into  the  woods  from  a  sort  of  instinct,  as  a 
dog  follows  a  little  way  down  the  road  to  look  after  a  depart- 
ing carriage. 

"  David  King  has  come  back  home  again,  and  taken  the 
district  school,"  said  one  village  gossip  to  another. 

"  Has  he,  now  ?  Didn't  find  the  blacks  what  he  expected, 
I  guess." 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


11  Every  rose,  you  sang,  has  its  thorn  ; 

But  this  has  none,  I  know." 
She  clasped  my  rival's  rose 

Over  her  breast  of  snow. 

I  bowed  to  hide  my  pain, 

With  a  man's  unskillful  art ; 
I  moved  my  lips,  and  could  not  say 

The  thorn  was  in  my  heart. 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 

I. 

"  INSTEAD  of  going  through  the  whole  book,  you  can  read 
this  abstract,  Miss  Honor." 

The  speaker  drew  forth  five  or  six  sheets  of  paper,  closely 
covered  with  fine,  small  handwriting.  The  letters  were  not 
in  the  least  beautiful,  or  even  straight,  if  you  examined  them 
closely,  for  they  carried  themselves  crookedly,  and  never  twice 
alike ;  but,  owing  to  their  extreme  smallness,  and  the  careful 
way  in  which  they  stood  on  the  line,  rigidly  particular  as  to 
their  feet,  although  their  spines  were  misshapen,  they  looked 
not  unlike  a  regiment  of  little  humpbacked  men,  marching 
with  extreme  precision,  and  daring  you  to  say  that  they  were 
crooked.  Stephen  Wainwright  had  partly  taught  himself  this 
hand,  and  partly  it  was  due  to  temperament.  He  despised  a 
clerkly  script ;  yet  he  could  not  wander  down  a  page,  or  blur 
his  words,  any  more  than  he  could  wander  down  a  street,  or 
blur  his  chance  remarks  ;  in  spite  of  himself,  he  always  knew 
exactly  where  he  was  going,  and  what  he  intended  to  say. 
He  was  not  a  man  who  attracted  attention  in  any  way.  He 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


277 


was  small,  yet  not  so  small  as  to  be  noticed  for  smallness ;  he 
was  what  is  called  plain-looking,  yet  without  that  marked  ug- 
liness which,  in  a  man,  sometimes  amounts  to  distinction.  As 
to  his  dress,  he  was  too  exact  for  carelessness  ;  you  felt  that 
the  smallest  spot  on  his  loose  flannel  coat  would  trouble  him  ; 
and  yet  he  was  entirely  without  that  trim,  fresh,  spring-morn- 
ing appearance  which  sometimes  gives  a  small  man  an  advan- 
tage over  his  larger  brethren,  as  the  great  coach-dogs  seem 
suddenly  coarse  and  dirty  when  the  shining  little  black-and- 
tan  terrier  bounds  into  the  yard  beside  them.  Stephen  was  a 
man  born  into  the  world  with  an  over-weight  of  caution  and 
doubt.  They  made  the  top  of  his  head  so  broad  and  square 
that  Reverence,  who  likes  a  rounded  curve,  found  herself  dis- 
placed ;  she  clung  on  desperately  through  his  schoolboy  days, 
but  was  obliged  at  last  to  let  go  as  the  youth  began  to  try  his 
muscles,  shake  off  extraneous  substances,  and  find  out  what 
he  really  was  himself,  after  the  long  succession  of  tutors  and 
masters  had  done  with  him. 

The  conceit  of  small  men  is  proverbial,  and  Stephen  was 
considered  a  living  etching  of  the  proverb,  without  color,  but 
sharply  outlined.  He  had  a  large  fortune  ;  he  had  a  good  in- 
tellect ;  he  had  no  vices — sufficient  reasons,  the  world  said,  why 
he  had  become,  at  forty,  unendurably  conceited.  His  life,  the 
world  considered,  was  but  a  succession  of  conquests  :  and  the 
quiet  manner  with  which  he  entered  a  drawing-room  crowded 
with  people,  or  stood  apart  and  looked  on,  was  but  another  in- 
dication of  that  vanity  of  his  which  never  faltered,  even  in  the 
presence  of  the  most  beautiful  women  or  the  most  brilliant  men. 
The  world  had  no  patience  with  him.  If  he  had  not  gone  out 
in  society  at  all,  if  he  had  belonged  to  that  large  class  of  men 
who  persistently  refuse  to  attire  themselves  in  dress-coats  and 
struggle  through  the  dance,  the  world  would  have  understood 
it ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  Stephen  went  everywhere,  looking 
smaller  and  plainer  than  usual  in  his  evening-dress,  asked  ev- 
erybody to  dance,  and  fulfilled  every  social  obligation  with 
painstaking  exactitude.  The  world  had  no  patience  with  him ; 


278  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

he  was  like  a  golden  apple  hanging  low ;  but  nobody  could 
pull  him  off  the  branch. 

Stephen's  conversation  -  friend  (every  unmarried  man, 
though  an  octogenarian,  has  his  conversation-friend)  was  Ade- 
laide Kellinger,  the  widow  of  his  cousin  and  favorite  boyhood- 
companion,  Ralph  Kellinger.  Adelaide  was  now  thirty-five 
years  of  age,  an  agreeable  woman,  tall,  slender,  and  exquisitely 
dressed — a  woman  who  made  people  forget  that  an  arm 
should  be  round,  or  a  cheek  red,  when  her  slim,  amber- 
colored  gracefulness  was  present  with  them.  Adelaide's 
house  was  Stephen's  one  lounging-place.  Here  he  came  to 
hear  her  talk  over  last  evening's  party,  and  here  he  delivered 
fewer  of  those  concise  apropos  remarks  for  which  he  was 
celebrated,  and  which  had  been  the  despair  of  a  long  series  of 
young  ladies  in  turn  ;  for  what  can  you  do  with  a  man  who, 
on  every  occasion,  even  the  most  unexpected,  has  calmly  ready 
for  you  a  neat  sentence,  politely  delivered,  like  the  charmingly 
folded  small  parcels  which  the  suave  dry-goods  clerk  hands  to 
you  across  the  counter  ?  Stephen  was  never  in  a  hurry  to 
bring  out  these  remarks  of  his ;  on  the  contrary,  he  always 
left  every  pause  unbroken  for  a  perceptible  half  moment  or 
two,  as  if  waiting  for  some  one  else  to  speak.  The  unwary, 
therefore,  were  often  entrapped  into  the  idea  that  he  was  slow 
or  unprepared  ;  and  the  unwary  made  a  mistake,  as  the  more 
observing  among  them  soon  discovered. 

Adelaide  Kellinger  had  studied  her  cousin  for  years.  The 
result  of  her  studies  was  as  follows :  She  paid,  outwardly,  no 
especial  attention  to  him,  and  she  remained  perfectly  natural 
herself.  This  last  was  a  difficult  task.  If  he  asked  a  ques- 
tion, she  answered  with  the  plainest  truth  she  could  imagine  ; 
if  he  asked  an  opinion,  she  gave  the  one  she  would  have  given 
to  her  most  intimate  woman-friend  (if  she  had  had  one)  ;  if 
she  was  tired,  she  did  not  conceal  it ;  if  she  was  out  of  tem- 
per, she  said  disagreeable,  sharp-edged  things.  She  was, 
therefore,  perfectly  natural  ?  On  the  contrary,  she  was  ex- 
tremely unnatural.  A  charming  woman  does  not  go  around 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


279 


at  the  present  day  in  a  state  of  nature  mentally  any  more 
than  physically ;  politeness  has  become  a  necessary  clothing 
to  her.  Adelaide  Kellinger  never  spoke  to  her  cousin  without 
a  little  preceding  pause,  during  which  she  thought  over  what 
she  was  going  to  say ;  and,  as  Stephen  was  slow  to  speak 
also,  their  conversations  were  ineffective,  judged  from  a  dra- 
matic point  of  view.  But  Adelaide  judged  by  certain  broad 
facts,  and  left  drama  to  others.  Stephen  liked  to  be  with  her ; 
and  he  was  a  creature  of  habit.  She  intended  that  he  should 
continue  to  like  to  be  with  her;  and  she  relied  upon  that 
habit. 

Afar  off,  counting  by  civilization,  not  by  parallels  of  lati- 
tude, there  are  mountains  in  this  country  of  ours,  east  of  the 
Mississippi,  as  purple-black,  wild,  and  pathless,  some  of  them, 
as  the  peaks  of  the  Western  sierras.  These  mountains  are 
in  the  middle  South.  A  few  roads  climb  from  the  plain  be- 
low into  their  presence,  and  cautiously  follow  the  small  rivers 
that  act  as  guides — a  few  roads,  no  more.  Here  and  there  are 
villages,  or  rather  farm-centers,  for  the  soil  is  fertile  wherever 
it  is  cleared ;  but  the  farms  are  old  and  stationary :  they  do 
not  grow,  stretch  out  a  fence  here,  or  a  new  field  there ;  they 
remain  as  they  were  when  the  farmers'  sons  were  armed  and 
sent  to  swell  George  Washington's  little  army.  To  this  day 
the  farmers'  wives  spin  and  weave,  and  dye  and  fashion,  with 
their  own  hands,  each  in  her  own  house,  the  garments  worn 
by  all  the  family ;  to  this  day  they  have  seen  nothing  move 
by  steam.  The  locomotive  waits  beyond  the  peaks ;  the  wa- 
ter-mill is  the  highest  idea  of  force.  Half  a  mile  from  the 
village  of  Ellerby  stands  one  of  these  water-mills  ;  to  it  come 
farmers  and  farmers'  boys  on  horseback,  from  miles  around, 
with  grist  to  be  ground.  And  sometimes  the  women  come 
too,  riding  slowly  on  old,  pacing  cart-horses,  their  faces  hid- 
den in  the  tubes  of  deep,  long  sun-bonnets,  their  arms  mov- 
ing up  and  down,  up  and  down,  as  the  old  horse  stretches  his 
head  to  his  fore-feet  and  back  with  every  step.  When  two 


2So  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

farm-women  meet  at  the  mill-block  there  is  much  talking  in 
the  chipped-off  mountain  dialect ;  but  they  sit  on  their  horses 
without  dismounting,  strong,  erect,  and  not  uncomely,  with 
eyes  like  eagles',  yet  often  toothless  in  their  prime,  in  the 
strange  rural-American  way,  which  makes  one  wonder  what 
it  was  in  the  life  of  the  negro  slaves  which  gives  their  grand- 
children now  such  an  advantage  in  this  over  the  descendants 
alike  of  the  whites  of  Massachusetts  Bay  and  the  plantations 
of  the  Carolinas.  When  the  farmers  meet  at  the  mill-block, 
they  dismount  and  sit  down  in  a  row,  not  exactly  on  their 
heels,  but  nearly  so :  in  reality,  they  sit,  or  squat,  on  their 
feet,  nothing  of  them  touching  the  ground  save  the  soles  of 
their  heavy  shoes,  the  two  tails  of  their  blue  homespun  coats 
being  brought  round  and  held  in  front.  In  this  position  they 
whittle  and  play  with  their  whips,  or  eat  the  giant  apples  of 
the  mountains.  Large,  iron-framed  men,  they  talk  but  slow- 
ly; they  are  content  apparently  to  go  without  those  finer 
comprehensions  and  appreciations  which  other  men  covet ; 
they  are  content  to  be  almost  as  inarticulate  as  their  horses — 
honest  beasts,  with  few  differences  save  temper  and  color  of 
hide.  Across  the  road  from  the  mill,  but  within  sound  and 
sight  of  its  wheel,  is  Ellerby  Library.  It  is  a  small  wooden 
building,  elevated  about  five  feet  above  the  ground,  on  four 
corner  supports,  like  a  table  standing  on  four  legs.  Daylight 
shines  underneath  ;  and  Northern  boys,  accustomed  to  close 
foundations,  would  be  seized  with  temptations  to  run  under 
and  knock  on  the  floor :  the  mountain  boys  who  come  to  the 
mill,  however,  are  too  well  acquainted  with  the  peculiarities 
of  the  library  to  find  amusement  in  them ;  and,  besides,  this 
barefooted  cavalry  cherishes,  under  its  homespun  jacket,  an 
awkward  respect  for  the  librarian. 

This  librarian  is  Honor  Dooris,  and  it  is  to  her  Stephen 
Wainwright  now  presents  his  sheets  of  manuscript. 

"  You  think  I  have  an  odd  handwriting  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  librarian  ;  "  I  should  not  think  you 
would  be  proud  of  it." 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  28i 

"  I  am  not." 

"  Then  why  not  try  to  change  it  ?  I  might  lend  you  my 
old  copies — those  I  used  myself  and  still  use.  Here  .they 
are."  And  she  took  from  her  desk  a  number  of  small  slips 
of  paper,  on  which  were  written,  in  a  round  hand  with  many 
flourishes  and  deeply-shaded  lines,  moral  sentences,  such  as 
"  He  that  would  thrive  must  rise  at  five  "  ;  "  Never  put  off  till 
to-morrow  what  you  can  do  to-day  "  ;  and  others  of  like  hila- 
rious nature. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Stephen  ;  "  I  will  take  the  copies,  and  try 
— to  improve." 

The  librarian  then  began  to  look  through  the  abstract, 
and  Stephen  did  not  break  the  silence. 

"  Would  it  not  be  a  good  idea  for  me  to  read  it  aloud  ?  " 
she  said,  after  a  while;  "  I  can  always  remember  what  I  have 
read  aloud." 

"As  you  please,"  replied  Stephen. 

So  the  librarian  began,  in  a  sweet  voice,  with  a  strong 
Southern  accent,  and  read  aloud,  with  frowning  forehead  and 
evidently  but  half  -  comprehension,  the  chemical  abstract 
which  Stephen  had  prepared. 

"  It  is  very  hard,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him,  with  a  deep 
furrow  between  her  eyebrows. 

"  But  not  too  hard  for  a  person  of  determined  mind." 

The  person  of  determined  mind  answered  to  the  spur  im- 
mediately, bent  forward  over  the  desk  again,  and  went  on 
reading.  Stephen,  motionless,  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a 
spider's  web  high  up  in  the  window.  When,  too  deeply  puz- 
zled to  go  on,  the  girl  stopped  and  asked  a  question,  he  an- 
swered it  generally  without  removing  his  eyes  from  the  web. 
When  once  or  twice  she  pushed  the  manuscript  away  and 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  impotent  and  irritated,  he  took  the 
sheets  from  her  hand,  explained  the  hard  parts  with  clear  pre- 
cision, gave  them  back,  and  motioned  to  her  to  continue.  She 
read  on  for  half  an  hour.  When  she  finished,  there  was  a 
flush  on  her  cheeks,  the  flush  of  annoyance  and  fatigue. 


282  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

11 1  must  go  now,"  she  said,  placing  the  manuscript  in  her 
desk,  and  taking  down  her  broad-brimmed  Leghorn  hat,  yel- 
low as  old  corn,  adorned  with  a  plain  band  of  white  ribbon. 

"  You  are  not,  of  course,  foiled  by  a  little  chemistry,"  said 
Wainwright,  rising  also,  and  looking  at  her  without  change 
of  expression. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered ;  but  still  she  crossed  the  room 
and  opened  the  door,  as  if  rather  glad  to  escape,  and,  with  a 
parting  salutation,  left  him. 

Wainwright  sat  down  again.  He  did  not  watch  her 
through  the  window ;  he  took  up  a  late  volume  of  Herbert 
Spencer,  opened  it  at  the  mark,  and  began  reading  with  that 
careful  dwelling  upon  each  word  which  is,  singularly  enough, 
common  alike  to  the  scientific  and  the  illiterate.  The  mass 
of  middle-class  readers  do  not  notice  words  at  all,  but  take 
only  the  general  sense. 

Honor  went  down  the  road  toward  Ellerby  village,  which 
was  within  sight  around  the  corner,  walking  at  first  rapidly, 
but  soon  falling  into  the  unhurrymg  gait  of  the  Southern  wo- 
man, so  full  of  natural,  swaying  grace.  At  the  edge  of  the 
village  she  turned  and  took  a  path  which  led  into  a  ravine. 
The  path  followed  a  brook,  and  began  to  go  up  hill  grad- 
ually ;  the  ravine  grew  narrow  and  the  sides  high.  Where 
the  flanks  met  and  formed  the  main  hillside,  there  was, 
down  in  the  hollow,  a  house  with  a  basement  above  ground, 
with  neither  paint  without  nor  within.  No  fences  were  re- 
quired for  Colonel  Eliot's  domain  —  the  three  near  hillsides 
were  his  natural  walls,  a  ditch  and  plank  at  the  entrance  of 
the  ravine  his  moat  and  drawbridge.  The  hillsides  had  been 
cleared,  and  the  high  corn  waved  steeply  all  around  and  above 
him  as  he  stood  in  front  of  his  house.  It  went  up  to  meet 
the  sky,  and  was  very  good  corn  indeed — what  he  could  save 
of  it.  A  large  portion,  however,  was  regularly  stolen  by  his 
own  farm-hands — according  to  the  pleasant  methods  of  South- 
ern agriculture  after  the  war.  The  Colonel  was  glad  when 
he  could  safely  house  one  half  of  it.  He  was  a  cripple,  hav- 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  283 

ing  lost  a  leg  at  Antietam.  He  had  married  a  second  wife, 
and  had  a  house  overflowing  with  children.  He  was  poor  as 
a  squirrel,  having  a  nest  in  these  woods  and  the  corn  for  nuts, 
and  little  else  besides.  He  was  as  brave  as  a  lion,  courteous 
as  an  old  cavalier,  hot-headed  when  aroused,  but  generally 
easy-tempered  and  cheery.  He  went  to  church  every  Sun- 
day, got  down  on  his  one  knee  and  confessed  his  sins  honest- 
ly;  then  he  came  home  in  the  old  red  wagon,  sat  on  the 
piazza,  and  watched  the  corn  grow.  Honor  was  his  niece , 
she  shared  in  his  love  and  his  poverty  like  his  own  children. 
Mrs.  Eliot,  a  dimpled,  soft-cheeked,  faded  woman,  did  not 
quite  like  Honor's  office  of  librarian,  even  if  it  did  add  two 
hundred  dollars  to  their  slender  income :  none  of  Honor's 
family,  none  of  her  family,  had  ever  been  librarians. 

"  But  we  are  so  poor  now,"  said  Honor. 

"  None  the  less  ladies,  I  hope,  my  dear,"  said  the  elder 
woman,  tapping  her  niece's  shoulder  with  her  pink-tipped, 
taper  fingers. 

Honor's  hands,  however,  showed  traces  of  work.  She 
had  hated  to  see  them  grow  coarse,  and  had  cried  over  them  ; 
and  then  she  had  gone  to  church,  flung  herself  down  upon 
her  knees,  offered  up  her  vanity  and  her  roughened  palms  as 
a  sacrifice,  and,  coming  home,  had  insisted  upon  washing  out 
all  the  iron  pots  and  saucepans,  although  old  Chloe  stood 
ready  to  do  that  work  with  tears  in  her  eyes  over  her  young 
mistress's  obstinacy.  It  was  when  this  zeal  of  Honor's  was 
burning  brightest,  and  her  self-mortifications  were  at  their 
height — which  means  that  she  was  eighteen,  imaginative,  and 
shut  up  in  a  box — that  an  outlet  was  suddenly  presented  to 
her.  The  old  library  at  Ellerby  Mill  was  resuscitated,  re- 
opened, endowed  with  new  life,  new  books,  and  a  new  floor, 
and  the  position  of  librarian  offered  to  her. 

In  former  days  the  South  had  a  literary  taste  of  its  own 
unlike  anything  at  the  North.  It  was  a  careful  and  correct 
taste,  founded  principally  upon  old  English  authors ;  and  it 
would  have  delighted  the  .soul  of  Charles  Lamb,  who,  being 


284  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

constantly  told  that  he  should  be  more  modern,  should  write 
for  posterity,  gathered  his  unappreciated  manuscripts  to  his 
breast,  and  declared  that  henceforth  he  would  write  only  for 
antiquity.  Nothing  more  unmodern  than  the  old-time  literary 
culture  of  the  South  could  well  be  imagined  ;  it  delighted  in 
old  editions  of  old  authors  ;  it  fondly  turned  their  pages,  and 
quoted  their  choice  passages  ;  it  built  little  libraries  here  and 
there,  like  the  one  at  Ellerby  Mill,  and  loaded  their  shelves 
with  fine  old  works.  In  the  cities  it  expanded  into  associa- 
tions, and  large,  lofty  chambers  were  filled  to  the  ceiling  with 
costly  tomes,  which  now  look  so  dark,  and  rich,  and  ancient 
to  Northern  visitors,  accustomed  to  the  lightly  bound,  cheap 
new  books  constantly  succeeding  each  other  on  the  shelves  of 
Northern  libraries.  These  Southern  collections  were  not  for 
the  multitude ;  there  was  no  multitude.  Where  plantations 
met,  where  there  was  a  neighborhood,  there  grew  up  the  little 
country  library.  No  one  was  in  a  hurry ;  the  rules  \vere  leni- 
ent ;  the  library  was  but  a  part  of  the  easy,  luxurious  way  of 
living  which  belonged  to  the  planters.  The  books  were  gen- 
erally imported,  an  English  rather  than  a  New  York  imprint 
being  preferred ;  and,  without  doubt,  they  selected  the  classics 
of  the  world.  But  they  stopped,  generally,  at  the  end  of  the 
last  century,  often  at  a  date  still  earlier ;  they  forgot  that  there 
may  be  new  classics. 

The  library  at  Ellerby  Mill  was  built  by  low-country 
planters  who  came  up  to  the  mountains  during  the  warm 
months,  having  rambling  old  country-houses  there.  They 
had  their  little  summer  church,  St.  Mark's  in  the  Wilderness, 
and  they  looked  down  upon  the  mountain-people,  who,  plain 
folk  themselves,  revered  the  old  names  borne  by  their  summer 
visitors,  names  known  in  their  State  annals  since  the  earliest 
times.  The  mountain-people  had  been  so  long  accustomed 
to  see  their  judges,  governors,  representatives,  and  senators 
chosen  from  certain  families,  that  these  offices  seemed  to 
them  to  belong  by  inheritance  to  those  families ;  certainly  the 
fanners  never  disputed  the  right.  For  the  mountain-people 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  285 

were  farmers,  not  planters ;  their  slaves  were  few.  They 
were  a  class  by  themselves,  a  connecting  link  between  the 
North  and  the  South.  The  old  names,  then,  placed  Ellerby 
Library  where  it  stood  full  thirty  years  before  Honor  was 
born.  They  did  not  care  for  the  village,  but  erected  the 
small  building  at  a  point  about  equidistant  from  their  coun- 
try-houses, and  near  the  mill  for  safety,  that  boys  or  idle 
slaves,  drawn  by  the  charm  which  any  building,  even  an 
empty  shed,  possesses  in  a  thinly  settled  country,  might  not 
congregate  there  on  Sundays  and  holidays,  or  camp  there  at 
night.  But  the  library  had  been  closed  now  for  thirteen 
years ;  the  trustees  were  all  dead,  the  books  moldy,  the  very 
door-key  was  lost.  The  low-country  planters  no  longer  came 
up  to  the  mountains ;  there  were  new  names  in  the  State  an- 
nals, and  the  mountain-farmers,  poorer  than  before,  and  much 
bewildered  as  to  the  state  of  the  world,  but  unchanged  in 
their  lack  of  the  questioning  capacity,  rode  by  to  and  from 
the  mill,  and  gave  no  thought  to  the  little  building  with  its 
barred  shutters  standing  in  the  grove.  What  was  there  in- 
side ?  Nothing  save  books,  things  of  no  practical  value,  and 
worthless.  So  the  library  stood  desolate,  like  an  unused  light- 
house on  the  shore;  and  the  books  turned  blue-green  and 
damp  at  their  leisure. 

II. 

STEPHEN  WAINWRIGHT  traveled,  on  principle.  He  had 
been,  on  principle,  through  Europe  more  than  once,  and 
through  portions  of  Asia  and  Africa ;  in  the  intervals  he  made 
pilgrimages  through  his  own  country.  He  was  not  a  languid 
traveler ;  he  had  no  affectations ;  but  his  own  marked  imper- 
sonality traveled  with  him,  and  he  was  always  the  most  indis- 
tinct, unremembered  person  on  every  railroad-car  or  steam- 
boat. He  was  the  man  without  a  shadow.  Of  course,  this 
was  only  when  he  chose  to  step  out  of  the  lime-light  which 
his  wealth  threw  around  his  every  gesture.  But  he  chose  to 
step  out  of  it  very  often,  and  always  suffered  when  he  did. 


286  UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

He  was  for  ever  adding  up  different  opinions  to  find  the  same 
constantly  recurring  sum  total  of  "  no  consequence."  After 
each  experience  of  the  kind  he  went  back  into  lime-light,  and 
played  at  kingship  for  a  while.  He  had  been  doing  this  for 
twenty  years. 

One  day  he  came  to  Ellerby  on  the  top  of  the  stage. 
Nine  Methodist  ministers  in  the  inside,  returning  from  a  mis- 
sionary meeting,  had  made  the  lonely  road  over  the  moun- 
tains echo  with  their  hearty  hymns.  One  small  brother 
climbed  out  at  the  half-way  station  on  the  summit,  and,  after 
drinking  copiously  from  the  spring,  clasped  his  hands  behind 
him  and  admired  the  prospect.  Wainwright  looked  at  him, 
not  cynically,  but  with  his  usual  expressionless  gaze.  The 
little  minister  drank  again,  and  walked  up  and  down.  After 
a  few  moments  he  drank  a  third  time,  and  continued  to  ad- 
mire the  prospect.  Wainwright  recalled  vaguely  the  Biblical 
injunction,  "  Take  a  little  wine  for  thy  stomach's  sake,"  when, 
behold  !  the  small  minister  drank  a  fourth  time  hastily,  and 
then,  as  the  driver  gathered  up  the  reins,  a  last  and  hearty 
fifth  time,  before  climbing  up  to  the  top,  where  Wainwright 
sat  alone. 

"  I  am  somewhat  subject  to  vertigo,"  he  explained,  as  he 
took  his  seat ;  "  I  will  ride  the  rest  of  the  way  in  the  open  air, 
with  your  permission,  sir." 

Wainwright  looked  at  him.  "  Perhaps  he  was  weighting 
himself  down  with  water,"  he  thought. 

The  brother  had,  indeed,  very  little  else  to  make  weight 
with :  his  small  body  was  enveloped  in  a  long  linen  duster, 
his  head  was  crowned  with  a  tall  hat ;  he  might  have  weighed 
one  hundred  pounds.  He  could  not  brace  himself  when  they 
came  to  rough  places,  because  his  feet  did  not  reach  the  floor ; 
but  he  held  on  manfully  with  both  hands,  and  begged  his 
companion's  pardon  for  sliding  against  him  so  often. 

"  I  am  not  greatly  accustomed  to  the  stage,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
generally  travel  on  horseback." 

"  Is  there  much  zeal  in  your  district  ?  "  said  Wainwright. 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  287 

It  was  the  question  he  always  asked  when  he  was  placed  next 
to  a  clergyman,  varying  it  only  by  "parish,"  "diocese,"  or 
"circuit,"  according  to  appearances. 

"  Zeal,"  said  his  companion — "  zeal,  sir  ?  Why,  there 
isn't  anything  else  !  " 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  Wainwright. 

The  little  minister  took  the  remark  in  good  faith. 

"  A  believer  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Stephen. 

"  Let  me  shake  you  by  the  hand,  brother.  This  is  a  noble 
country  in  which  to  believe.  Among  these  great  and  solemn 
peaks,  who  can  disbelieve  or  who  go  contrary  to  the  will  of 
the  Lord  ?  " 

Stephen  made  no  answer,  and  the  brother,  lifting  up  his 
voice  after  a  silence,  cried  again,  "  Who  ?  "  And,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  and  more  fervently,  a  second  "  Who  ? " 
Then  a  third,  in  a  high,  chanting  key.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
would  go  on  for  ever. 

"  Well,"  said  Stephen,  "  if  you  will  have  answer,  I  suppose 
I  might  say  the  moonlight  whisky-makers." 

The  little  brother  came  down  from  the  heights  immedi- 
ately, and  glanced  at  his  companion.  "  Acquainted  with  the 
country,  sir?  "  he  asked  in  a  business-like  tone. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Going  to  stay  at  Ellerby  awhile,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Reckon  you  will  like  to  ride  about ;  you  will  need  horses. 
They  will  cheat  you  in  the  village ;  better  apply  to  me.  Head 
is  my  name — Bethuel  Head ;  everybody  knows  me."  Then 
he  shut  his  eyes  and  began  to  sing  a  hymn  of  eight  or  ten 
verses,  the  brethren  below,  hearing  him-  chanting  alone  on 
the  top,  joining  in  the  refrain  with  hearty  good  will.  As  soon 
as  he  had  finished,  he  said  again,  in  a  whisper,  "  Better  apply 
to  me,"  at-  the  same  time  giving  his  companion  a  touch  with 
the  elbow.  Then  he  leaned  over  and  began  a  slanting  con- 
versation with  the  brother  who  occupied  the  window-seat  on 


288  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

his  side ;  but,  whenever  he  righted  himself  for  a  moment,  he 
either  poked  Wainwright  or  winked  at  him,  not  lightly  or 
jocularly,  but  with  a  certain  anxious,  concealed  earnestness 
which  was  evidently  real.  "  Head  is  my  name,"  he  whispered 
again  ;  "  better  write  it  down — Bethuel  Head."  And  when 
Wainwright,  who  generally  did  imperturbably  whatever  other 
people  asked  him  to  do,  finding  it  in  the  end  the  least  trouble, 
finally  did  write  it  down,  the  little  man  seemed  relieved. 
"  Their  blood  has  dyed  the  pure  mountain-streams,"  he  whis- 
pered solemnly,  as  the  coach  crept  down  a  dark  gorge  with 
the  tree-branches  sweeping  its  sides;  "but  I  shall  go  out, 
yea,  I  shall  go  out  as  did  David  against  Goliath,  and  save  one 
man — one !  " 

"Do,"  said  Stephen.  What  the  little  brother  meant  he 
neither  knew  nor  cared  to  know ;  going  through  life  without 
questions  he  had  found  to  be  the  easiest  way.  Besides,  he 
was  very  tired.  He  had  never  "rejoiced  in  his  strength," 
even  when  he  was  young ;  he  had  always  had  just  enough  to 
carry  him  through,  with  nothing  over.  The  seven  hours  on  the 
mountain-road,  which  climbed  straight  up  on  one  side  of  the 
Blue  Ridge,  and  straight  down  on  the  other,  now  over  solid 
rock,  now  deep  in  red  clay,  now  plunging  through  a  break- 
neck gorge,  now  crossing  a  rushing  stream  so  often  that  the 
route  seemed  to  be  principally  by  water,  had  driven  him  into 
the  dull  lethargy  which  was  the  worst  ailment  he  knew ;  for 
even  his  illnesses  were  moderate.  He  fell  asleep  mentally, 
and  only  woke  at  the  sound  of  a  girl's  voice. 

It  was  twilight,  and  the  stage  had  stopped  at  Ellerby  Mill. 
Two  of  the  ministers  alighted  there,  to  take  horse  and  go  over 
solitary  roads  homeward  to  small  mountain-villages,  one  ten, 
one  fifteen  miles  away.  Brother  Bethuel  was  leaning  over 
the  side,  holding  on  to  his  tall  hat,  and  talking  down  to  a 
young  girl  who  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  roadway  on  a  bank 
of  ferns. 

"  Masters  is  better,  Miss  Honor,"  he  said,  "  or  was  the  last 
time  I  saw  him ;  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  present  danger." 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  289 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  answered  the  girl  with  earnestness ; 
her  eyes  did  not  swerve  from  the  little  minister's  face,  although 
Wainwright  was  now  looking  down  too.  "  If  we  could  only 
have  him  entirely  well  again  ! " 

"  He  will  be ! — he  will  be ! "  answered  Brother  Bethuel. 
"  Pray  for  him,  my  sister." 

"  I  do  pray,"  said  the  girl — "  daily,  almost  hourly."  Into 
her  dark  eyes,  uplifted  and  close  to  him,  Wainwright  could 
look  directly,  himself  unnoticed  as  usual ;  and  he  read  there 
that  she  did  pray.  "  She  believes  it,"  he  thought.  He  looked 
at  her  generally ;  she  did  not  appear  to  be  either  extremely 
young,  or  ignorant,  or  commonplace,  exactly.'  "About  eigh- 
teen," he  thought. 

"  He  has  asked  if  his  father  has  been  told,"  continued  the 
minister. 

"  No,  no ;  it  is  better  he  should  know  nothing,"  said  the 
girl.  "  Can  you  take  a  package,  Mr.  Head  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to-morrow.     I  abide  to-night  with  Brother  Beetle." 

"  I  will  have  it  ready,  then,"  said  the  girl. 

The  stage  moved  on,  she  waved  her  hand,  and  the  minis- 
ter nodded  energetically  in  return  until  the  road  curved  and 
he  could  see  her  no  longer.  His  tall  hat  was  tightly  on  his 
head  all  this  time  ;  politeness  in  the  mountains  is  not  a  mat- 
ter of  hat.  They  were  but  half  a  mile  from  Ellerby  now,  and 
the  horses  began  to  trot  for  the  first  time  in  eight  hours. 
Brother  Bethuel  turned  himself,  and  met  Wainwright 's  eyes. 
Now  those  eyes  of  Wainwright  were  of  a  pale  color,  like  the 
eyes  of  a  fish;  but  they  had  at  times  a  certain  inflexibility 
which  harassed  the  beholder,  as,  sometimes,  one  fish  in  an 
aquarium  will  drive  a  person  into  nervousness  by  simply  re- 
maining immovable  behind  his  glass  wall,  and  staring  out  at 
him  stonily.  Brother  Bethuel,  meeting  Wainwright's  eyes, 
immediately  began  to  talk  : 

"  A  fine  young  lady  that :  Miss  Honor  Dooris,  niece  of 
Colonel  Eliot — the  low-country  Eliots,  you  know,  one  of  our 
most  distinguished  families.  I  venture  to  say,  sir,  that  strike 
13 


290 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


at  an  Eliot,  yes,  strike  at  an  Eliot,  and  a  thousand  will  rise  to 
beat  back  the  blow.  It  would  be  dangerous,  sir,  most  dan- 
gerous, to  strike  at  that  family." 

"  Are  they  troubled  by — by  strikers  ?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"  Nobody  ever  harms  anybody  in  this  blessedly  peaceful 
country  of  ours,"  said  the  little  minister  in  a  loud,  chanting 
voice.  Then  he  dropped  to  a  conversational  tone  again. 
"  Miss  Honor  has  been  to  the  library ;  she  is  writing  some 
'  Reflections  on  the  Book  of  Job,'  and  is  obliged  of  course  to 
consult  the  authorities.  You  noticed  the  old  library,  did  you 
not  ? — that  small  building  in  the  grove,  opposite  the  mill ;  her 
father  was  one  of  the  trustees.  The  front  steps  are  down, 
and  she  is  obliged  to  climb  in  by  a  back  window — allowable, 
of  course,  to  a  trustee's  daughter — in  order  to  consult  the  au- 
thorities." 

"  And  on  Job  they  are  such  as —  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  dictionaries,  I  reckon,"  said  Brother  Bethuel, 
after  considering  a  moment.  "  She  is  not  of  my  flock ;  the 
Eliots  are,  of  course,  Episcopalians,"  he  continued,  with  an 
odd  sort  of  pride  in  the  fact.  "  But  I  have  aided  her — I  have 
aided  her." 

"  In  the  matter  of  Masters,  perhaps  ?  " 

Brother  Bethuel  glanced  at  his  companion  quickly  in  the 
darkening  twilight.  He  caught  him  indulging  in  a  long,  tired 
yawn. 

"  I  was  about  to  say,  general  charity ;  but  the  matter  of 
Masters  will  do,"  he  said  carelessly.  "The  man  is  a  poor 
fellow  up  in  the  mountains,  in  whom  Miss  Dooris  is  interested. 
He  is  often  ill  and  miserable,  and  always  very  poor.  She 
sends  him  aid  when  she  can.  I  am  to  take  a  bundle  to-mor- 
row." 

"  And  she  prays  for  him,"  said  Wainwright,  beginning  to 
descend  as  the  stage  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  village  inn. 

"  She  prays  for  all,"  replied  Brother  Bethuel,  leaning  over, 
and  following  him  down  with  the  words,  delivered  in  a  full  un- 
dertone. Brother  Bethuel  had  a  good  voice ;  he  had  preached 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  2g\ 

under  the  open  sky  among  the  great  peaks  too  long  to  have 
any  feeble  tones  left. 

"  I  do  not  believe  anybody  ever  prays  for  me,"  was  Wain- 
wright's  last  thought  before  he  came  sharply  into  personal 
contact  with  the  discomforts  of  the  inn.  And,  as  his  mother 
died  when  he  was  born,  perhaps  he  was  right. 

The  next  morning  he  wandered  about  and  gazed  at  the 
superb  sweep  of  the  mountains.  Close  behind  him  rose  the 
near  wall  of  the  Blue  Ridge  ;  before  him  stretched  the  line  of 
the  Alleghanies  going  down  toward  Georgia,  the  Iron  Moun- 
tains, the  Bald  Mountains,  and  the  peaks  of  the  Great  Smoky, 
purple  and  soft  in  the  distance.  A  chain  of  giant  sentinels 
stretched  across  the  valley  from  one  range  to  the  other,  and 
on  these  he  could  plainly  see  the  dark  color  given  by  the 
heavy,  unmixed  growth  of  balsam-firs  around  and  around  up 
to  the  very  top,  a  hue  which  gives  the  name  Black  Mountain 
to  so  many  of  these  peaks. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  when  the  three  little  church-bells  rang, 
making  a  tinkling  sound  in  the  great  valley,  he  walked  over  to 
the  Episcopal  church.  He  had  a  curiosity  to  see  that  girl's 
eyes  again  by  daylight.  Even  there,  in  that  small  house  of 
God  where  so  few  strangers  ever  came,  he  was  hardly  no- 
ticed. He  took  his  seat  on  one  of  the  benches,  and  looked 
around.  Colonel  Eliot  was  there,  in  a  black  broadcloth  coat 
seventeen  years  old,  but  well  brushed,  and  worn  with  an  air 
of  unshaken  dignity.  The  whole  congregation  heard  him  ac- 
knowledge every  Sunday  that  he  was  a  miserable  sinner ;  but 
they  were  as  proud  of  him  on  his  one  leg  with  his  crutch 
under  his  arm  as  if  he  had  been  a  perfected  saint,  and  they 
would  have  knocked  down  any  man  who  had  dared  to  take 
him  at  his  Sunday  word.  The  Colonel's  placid,  dimpled  wife 
was  there,  fanning  herself  with  the  slowly  serene  manner  of 
her  youth ;  and  two  benches  were  full  of  children.  On  the 
second  bench  was  Honor,  and  the  man  of  the  world  watched 
her  closely  in  his  quiet,  unobserved  way.  This  was  nothing 
new :  Wainwright  spent  his  life  in  watching  people.  He  had 


292 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


studied  hundreds  of  women  in  the  same  way,  and  he  formed 
his  conclusions  with  minutest  care.  He  judged  no  one  by 
impulse  or  intuition,  or  even  by  liking  or  disliking.  What 
persons  said  was  not  of  the  slightest  importance  to  him  in 
any  way :  he  noted  what  they  did.  The  service  was  in  prog- 
ress, and  Honor  was  down  upon  her  knees.  He  saw  her  con- 
fess her  sins  ;  he  saw  her  bow  her  head  to  receive  the  absolu- 
tion ;  he  saw  her  repeat  the  psalms  ;  he  watched  her  through 
every  word  of  the  Litany ;  he  heard  her  sing ;  and  he  noted 
her  clasped  hands  and  strong  effort  of  recollection  throughout 
the  recital  of  the  Commandments.  Then  he  settled  himself 
anew,  and  began  to  watch  her  through  the  sermon.  He  had 
seen  women  attentive  through  the  service  before  now :  they 
generally  became  neutral  during  the  sermon.  But  this  girl 
never  swerved.  She  sat  with  folded  arms  looking  at  the 
preacher  fixedly,  a  slight  compression  about  the  mouth  show- 
ing that  the  attention  was  that  of  determination.  The  preach- 
er was  uninteresting,  he  was  tautological ;  still  the  girl  fol- 
lowed him.  "  What  a  narrow  little  round  of  words  and 
phrases  it  is ! "  thought  the  other,  listening  too,  but  weary. 
"  How  can  she  keep  up  with  him  ?  "  And  then,  still  watch- 
ing her,  he  fell  to  noticing  her  dress  and  attitude.  Poor  Honor 
wore  a  gown  of  limp  black  alpaca,  faithful,  long-enduring 
servant  of  small-pursed  respectability;  on  her  head  was  a 
small  black  bonnet  which  she  had  fashioned  herself,  and  not 
very  successfully.  A  little  linen  collar,  a  pair  of  old  gloves, 
and  her  prayer-book  completed  the  appointments  of  her  cos- 
tume. Other  young  girls  in  the  congregation  were  as  poorly 
dressed  as  she,  but  they  had  a  ribbon,  a  fan,  an  edge  of  lace 
here  and  there,  or  at  least  a  rose  from  the  garden  to  brighten 
themselves  withal ;  this  girl  alone  had  nothing.  She  was  tall 
and  well  rounded,  almost  majestic,  but  childishly  young  in 
face.  Her  dark  hair,  which  grew  very  thickly — Wainwright 
could  see  it  on  the  temples — seemed  to  have  been  until  re- 
cently kept  short,  since  the  heavy  braid  behind  made  only  one 
awkward  turn  at  the  back  of  the  head.  She  had  a  boldly  cut 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


293 


profile,  too  marked  for  regular  beauty,  yet  pleasant  to  the  eye 
owing  to  the  delicate  finish  of  the  finer  curves  and  the  dis- 
tinct arch  of  the  lips.  Her  cheeks  were  rather  thin.  She  had 
no  grace ;  she  sat  stiffly  on  the  bench,  and  resolutely  listened 
to  the  dull  discourse.  "  A  good  forehead,"  thought  Wain- 
wright,  "  and,  thank  Fortune !  not  disfigured  by  straggling 
ends  of  hair.  '  Reflections  on  the  Book  of  Job,'  did  he  say  ? 
Poor  little  soul ! " 

At  last  the  service  was  ended,  the  sermon  of  dull  para- 
phrases over ;  but  Wainwright  did  not  get  his  look.  Honor 
sat  still  in  her  place  without  turning.  He  lingered  awhile ; 
but,  as  he  never  did  anything,  on  principle,  that  attracted  at- 
tention, he  went  out  with  the  last  stray  members  of  the  con- 
gregation, and  walked  down  the  green  lane  toward  the  inn. 
He  did  not  look  back :  certain  rules  of  his  he  would  not  have 
altered  for  the  Queen  of  Sheba  (whoever  she  was).  But 
Brother  Bethuel,  coming  from  the  Methodist  meeting-house, 
bore  down  upon  him,  and  effected  what  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
could  not  have  done :  himself  openly  watching  the  church- 
door,  he  took  Wainwright  by  the  arm,  turned  him  around, 
and,  holding  him  by  a  buttonhole,  stood  talking  to  him.  The 
red  wagon  of  the  Eliots  was  standing  at  the  gate ;  Mrs.  Eliot 
was  on  the  front  seat,  and  all  the  space  behind  was  filled  in 
with  children.  Black  Pompey  was  assisting  his  master  into 
the  driver's  place,  while  Honor  held  the  crutch.  A  moment 
afterward  the  wagon  passed  them,  Pompey  sitting  at  the  end 
with  his  feet  hanging  down  behind.  Brother  Bethuel  re- 
ceived a  nod  from  the  Colonel,  but  Madame  Eliot  serenely 
failed  to  see  him.  The  low-country  lady  had  been  brought 
up  to  return  the  bows  and  salutations  of  all  the  blacks  in  the 
neighborhood,  but  whites  below  a  certain  line  she  did  not  see. 

Evidently  Honor  was  going  to  walk  home.  In  another 
moment  she  was  close  to  them,  and  Stephen  was  having  his 
look.  The  same  slight  flush  rose  in  her  face  when  she  saw 
Brother  Bethuel  which  had  risen  there  the  day  before ;  the 
same  earnestness  came  into  her  eyes,  and  Stephen  became 


294  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

haunted  by  the  desire  to  have  them  turned  upon  himself.  But 
he  was  not  likely  to  have  this  good  fortune ;  all  her  attention 
was  concentrated  upon  the  little  minister.  She  said  she  had 
the  package  ready ;  it  would  be  at  the  usual  place.  He  would 
take  it  up,  he  replied,  at  sunset.  She  hoped  the  moon  would 
not  be  hidden  by  clouds.  He  hoped  so  too ;  but  old  Marcher 
knew  the  way.  She  had  heard  that  the  East  Branch  was  up. 
He  had  heard  so  also ;  but  old  Marcher  could  swim  very  well. 
All  this  was  commonplace,  yet  it  seemed  to  Wainwright  that 
the  girl  appeared  to  derive  a  certain  comfort  from  it,  and  to 
linger.  There  was  a  pause. 

"  This  is  my  friend,"  said  Brother  Bethuel  at  last,  indicat- 
ing Stephen  with  a  backward  turn  of  his  thumb  ;  "  Mr. — 
Mr.—" 

"  Wainwright,"  said  Stephen,  uncovering ;  then,  with  his 
straw  hat  in  his  hand,  he  made  her  a  low  bow,  as  deliberate 
as  the  salutations  in  a  minuet,  coming  up  slowly  and  looking 
with  gravity  full  in  her  face.  He  had  what  he  wanted  then — 
a  look ;  she  had  never  seen  such  a  bow  before.  To  tell 
the  truth,  neither  had  Stephen ;  he  invented  it  for  the  occa- 
sion.. 

"  Met  him  on  the  stage,"  said  Brother  Bethuel,  "and,  as 
he  is  a  stranger,  I  thought,  perhaps,  Miss  Honor,  the  Colonel 
would  let  him  call  round  this  afternoon  ;•  he'd  take  it  as  a 
favor,  I  know."  There  was  a  concealed  determination  in  his 
voice.  The  girl  immediately  gave  Stephen  another  look. 
"  My  uncle  will  be  happy  to  see  you,"  she  said  quickly.  Then 
they  all  walked  on  together,  and  Stephen  noted,  under  his  eye- 
lashes, the  mended  gloves,  the  coarse  shoe,  and  the  rusty 
color  of  the  black  gown ;  he  noted  also  the  absolute  purity  of 
the  skin  over  the  side  of  the  face  which  was  next  to  him,  over 
the  thin  cheek,  the  rather  prominent  nose,  the  little  shell-like 
ear,  and  the  rim  of  throat  above  the  linen  collar.  This  clear 
white  went  down  to  the  edge  of  the  arched  lips,  and  met  the 
red  there  sharply  and  decidedly ;  the  two  colors  were  not 
mingled  at  all.  What  was  there  about  her  that  interested 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  295 

him  ?  It  was  the  strong  reality  of  her  religious  belief.  In 
the  character-studies  with  which  he  amused  his  life  he  recog- 
nized any  real  feeling,  no  matter  what,  as  a  rarity,  a  treasure- 
trove.  Once  he  had  spent  six  weeks  in  studying  a  woman 
who  slowly  and  carefully  planned  and  executed  a  revenge. 
He  had  studied  what  is  called  religion  enormously,  consider- 
ing it  one  of  the  great  spiritual  influences  of  the  world :  he 
had  found  it,  in  his  individual  cases  so  far,  mixed.  Should  he 
study  this  new  specimen  ?  He  had  not  decided  when  they 
came  to  the  porch  of  the  inn.  There  was  no  hurry  about 
deciding,  and  this  was  his  place  to  stop ;  he  never  went  out 
of  his  way.  But  Honor  paused  too,  and,  looking  at  him,  said, 
with  a  mixture  of  earnestness  and  timidity :  "  You  will  come 
and  see  uncle,  I  hope,  Mr.  Wainwright.  Come  this  after- 
noon." She  even  offered  her  hand,  and  offered  it  awkwardly. 
As  Wainwright's  well-fitting,  well-buttoned  glove  touched  for 
an  instant  the  poor,  cheap  imitation,  wrinkled  and  flabby, 
which  covered  her  hand,  he  devoutly  hoped  she  would  not 
see  the  contrast  as  he  saw  it.  She  did  not :  a  Dooris  was  a 
Dooris,  and  the  varieties  of  kid-skin  and  rat-skin  could  not 
alter  that. 

Brother  Bethuel  went  on  with  Honor,  but  in  the  afternoon 
he  came  back  to  the  inn  to  pilot  Stephen  to  the  Eliot  ravine. 
Stephen  was  reading  a  letter  from  Adelaide  Kellinger — a 
charming  letter,  full  of  society  events  and  amusing  little  com- 
ments, which  were  not  rendered  unintelligible  either  by  the 
lack  of  commas,  semicolons,  and  quotation-marks,  and  the 
substitution  of  the  never-failing  dash,  dear  to  the  feminine 
pen.  The  sheets,  exhaling  the  faintest  reminiscence  of  sandal- 
wood,  were  covered  with  clear  handwriting,  which  went 
straight  from  page  to  page  in  the  natural  way,  without  cross- 
ing or  doubling  or  turning  back.  There  was  a  date  at  the 
top ;  the  weather  was  mentioned ;  the  exact  time  of  arrival  of 
Stephen's  last  letter  told.  It  can  be  seen  from  this  that  Ade- 
laide was  no  ordinary  correspondent. 

Stephen,  amused  and  back  in  New  York,  did  not  care 


296  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

much  about  the  Eliot  visit ;  but  Brother  Bethuel  cared,  and 
so,  with  his  usual  philosophy,  Stephen  went.  They  talked  of 
the  mountains,  of  the  mountain-people,  of  the  villagers  ;  then 
Brother  Bethuel  took  up  the  subject  of  the  Eliot  family,  and 
declaimed  their  praises  all  the  rest  of  the  way.  They  were 
extremely  influential,  they  were  excessively  hot-tempered  ;  the 
State  was  in  a  peculiar  condition  at  present,  but  the  Eliots 
held  still  the  old  wires,  and  it  would  be  extremely  dangerous 
to  attack  the  family  in  any  way.  Stephen  walked  along,  and 
let  the  little  man  chant  on.  He  had  heard,  in  this  same  man- 
ner, pages  and  volumes  of  talk  from  the  persons  who  insist 
upon  telling  you  all  about  people  in  whom  you  have  not  the 
remotest  interest,  even  reading  you  their  letters  and  branching 
off  farther  and  farther,  until  you  come  to  regard  those  first 
mentioned  as  quite  near  friends  when  the  talker  comes  back 
to  them  (if  he  ever  does),  being  so  much  nearer  than  the  out- 
side circles  into  which  he  has  tried  to  convey  you.  Stephen 
never  interrupted  these  talkers  ;  so  he  was  a  favorite  prey  of 
theirs.  Only  gradually  did  it  dawn  upon  them  that  his  still- 
ness was  not  exactly  that  of  attention.  The  only  interest  he 
showed  now  was  when  the  minister  got  down  to  what  he 
called  the  present  circumstances  of  the  family.  It  seemed 
that  they  were  very  poor ;  Brother  Bethuel  appeared  deter- 
mined that  the  stranger  should  know  precisely  how  poor.  He 
brought  forward  the  pathetic  view. 

"  They  have  nothing  to  eat  sometimes  but  corn-meal  and 
potatoes,"  he  said.  This  made  no  impression. 

"  The  brook  rises  now  and  then,  and  they  live  in  a  roar- 
ing flood ;  all  the  small  articles  have  more  than  once  been 
washed  away." 

"  Any  of  the  children  ?  "  inquired  Wainwright. 

"  Once,  when  the  horses  were  lame,  I  saw  Honor  go  to 
the  mill  herself  with  the  meal-sack." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  Yes,  and  carry  it  home  again.  And  I  have  seen  her 
scrubbing  out  the  kettles." 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  297 

Wainwright  gave  an  inward  shudder.  "  Has  she  any  edu- 
cation at  all  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  feeling  like  giving  her  money, 
and  getting  away  as  fast  as  possible :  money,  because  he  had 
for  twenty-four  hours  made  her  in  a  certain  way  a  subject  of 
study,  and  felt  as  if  he  owed  her  something,  especially  if  he 
went  disappointed. 

"  Sir,  she  has  a  finished  education,"  responded  the  little 
minister  with  dignity ;  "  she  can  play  delightfully  upon  Da- 
vid's instrument,  the  harp." 

At  this  moment  they  came  to  the  plank  and  the  ditch. 

"  I  will  go  no  farther,"  said  Brother  Bethuel,  "and — and 
you  need  not  mention  to  the  Colonel,  if  you  please,  that  I 
accompanied  you  hither."  Then  he  stood  on  tiptoe,  and 
whispered  mysteriously  into  Stephen's  ear:  "As  to  horses, 
remember  to  apply  to  me — Brother  Head,  Bethuel  Head.  A 
note  dropped  into  the  post-office  will  reach  me,  a  man  on 
horseback  bringing  the  mail  up  our  way  twice  each  week. 
Bethuel  Head — do  not  forget."  He  struck  himself  on  the 
breast  once  or  twice  as  if  to  emphasize  the  name,  gave  Ste- 
phen a  wink,  which  masqueraded  as  knowing  but  was  more 
like  entreaty,  and,  turning  away,  walked  back  toward  the  vil- 
lage. 

"  An  extraordinary  little  man,"  thought  the  other,  cross- 
ing the  plank,  and  following  the  path  up  the  ravine  by  the 
side  of  the  brook. 

The  Colonel  sat  on  his  high,  unrailed  piazza,  with  the  red 
wagon  and  a  dilapidated  buggy  drawn  up  comfortably  under- 
neath ;  Honor  was  with  him.  He  rose  to  greet  his  visitor, 
and  almost  immediately  asked  if  he  was  related  to  Bishop 
Wainwright.  When  Stephen  replied  that  he  was  not,  the  old 
gentleman  sat  down,  and  leaned  his  crutch  against  the  wall, 
with  a  good  deal  of  disappointment :  being  a  devoted  church- 
man, he  had  hoped  for  a  long  ecclesiastical  chat.  But,  after 
a  moment,  he  took  up  with  good  grace  the  secondary  subject 
of  the  mountains,  and  talked  very  well  about  them.  With 
the  exception  of  the  relationship  to  the  Bishop,  he,  with  the 


298  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

courtesy  of  the  South,  did  not  ask  his  guest  a  single  question : 
Stephen  could  have  been  a  peddler,  a  tenor-singer,  a  carpet- 
bag politician,  or  a  fugitive  from  justice,  with  perfect  safety, 
as  far  as  questions  were  concerned. 

Honor  said  nothing.  It  was  refreshing  to  be  with  a  girl 
who  did  not  want  to  go  anywhere  or  do  anything.  She  had 
really  asked  him  to  come,  then,  merely  to  please  the  old  Colo- 
nel. A  girl  of  gold.  But,  alas !  the  girl  of  gold  proved 
herself  to  be  of  the  usual  metal,  after  all ;  for,  when  half  an 
hour  had  passed,  she  deliberately  proposed  to  her  uncle  that 
she  should  take  their  visitor  up  the  hill  to  see  the  view.  Now, 
Stephen  had  been  taken  numerous  times  in  his  life  to  see 
views  ;  the  trouble  was  that  he  always  looked  directly  at  the 
real  landscape,  whatever  it  was,  and  found  a  great  deal  to 
say  about  it,  to  the  neglect  of  the  view  nearer  his  side.  He 
did  not  think  it  necessary  now  to  play  his  usual  part  of  re- 
sponsive politeness  to  this  little  country-girl's  open  manoeuvre ; 
he  could  go  if  she  insisted  upon  it,  he  supposed.  So  he  sat 
looking  down  at  the  brim  of  his  hat ;  but  noted,  also,  that 
even  the  Colonel  seemed  surprised.  Honor,  however,  had 
risen,  and  was  putting  on  her  ugly  little  bonnet ;  she  looked 
quietly  determined.  Stephen  rose  also,  and  took  leave  for- 
mally ;  he  would  go  homeward  from  the  hill.  They  started, 
he  by  this  time  weary  of  the  whole  State,  and  fast  inclining 
toward  departure  early  the  next  morning. 

He  did  not  say  much  to  her,  or  look  at  her ;  but,  in  truth, 
the  path  through  the  corn  was  too  steep  and  narrow  for  con- 
versation :  they  were  obliged  to  walk  in  single  file.  When 
they  had  reached  the  summit,  and  Stephen  was  gathering  to- 
gether his  adjectives  for  his  usual  view-remarks,  he  turned 
toward  his  companion,  and  was  surprised  to  see  how  em- 
barrassed she  appeared ;  he  began  to  feel  interested  in  her 
again — interested  in  her  timid,  dark  eyes,  and  the  possibilities 
in  their  depths.  She  was  evidently  frightened. 

"  If,"  she  commenced  once,  twice — then  faltered  and 
stopped. 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


299 


"Well?"  said  Stephen  encouragingly:  after  all,  she  was 
very  young. 

"  If  you  intend  to  stay  in  Ellerby  any  length  of  time — do 
you  ?  " 

"  I  really  have  not  decided,"  said  Stephen,  relapsing  into 
coolness. 

"  I  was  only  going  to  say  that  if  you  do  stay,  we,  that  is, 
I — we,  I  mean — shall  be  happy  to  see  you  here  often." 

"  Thanks." 

"The  view  is  considered  fine,"  faltered  the  girl,  pulling 
off  her  gloves  in  desperate  embarrassment,  and  putting  them 
deep  down  in  her  pocket. 

Stephen  began  his  view-remarks. 

"  But  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  she  continued,  breaking 
in  at  the  first  pause,  "  was,  that  if  you  should  stay,  and  need 
— need  horses,  or  a — guide,  I  wish  you  would  apply  to  Mr. 
Head." 

"  They  are  in  a  conspiracy  against  me  with  their  horses," 
thought  Stephen.  Then  he  threw  a  hot  shot:  "Yes;  Mr. 
Head  asked  me  the  same  thing.  He  also  asked  me  not  to 
mention  that  he  brought  me  here." 

"  No  ;  pray  do  not,"  said  Honor  quickly. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her :  she  began  to  blush — pink, 
crimson,  pink ;  then  white,  and  a  very  dead  white  too. 

"  You  think  it  strange  ?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Not  at  all.  Do  not  be  disturbed,  Miss  Dooris ;  I  never 
think  anything." 

"  Mr.  Head  is  poor,  and — and  tries  to  make  a  little  money 
now  and  then  with  his  horses,"  she  stammered. 

"  So  I — judged." 

"  And  I — try  to  help  him." 

"Very  natural,  I  am  sure." 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  sorry  for  the  child,  and  her  poor 
little  efforts  to  gain  a  few  shillings  :  he  had  decided  that  the 
Colonel's  old  horses  were  the  wagon-team  of  this  partner- 
ship, and  "Marcher  "  the  saddle-horse. 


300  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"  I  shall  certainly  need  horses,"  he  said  aloud. 

"  And  you  will  apply  to  Mr.  Head  ?  " 

She  was  so  eager  that  he  forgot  himself,  and  smiled. 

"  Miss  Dooris,"  he  said,  bowing,  "  I  will  apply  to  Mr. 
Head,  and  only  to  him ;  I  give  you  my  word." 

She  brightened  at  once. 

The  golden  shafts  of  the  setting  sun  shone  full  in  her 
face :  her  dark  eyes  did  not  mind  them ;  she  did  not  put  up 
her  hand  to  shield  herself,  but  stood  and  looked  directly  into 
the  glittering,  brilliant  western  sky.  He  put  his  quizzical  ex- 
pression back  out  of  sight,  and  began  to  talk  to  her.  She 
answered  him  frankly.  He  tested  her  a  little ;  he  was  an  old 
hand  at  it.  Of  coquetry  she  gave  back  not  a  sign.  Grad- 
ually the  conviction  came  to  him  that  she  had  not  asked  him 
up  there  for  personal  reasons  at  all.  It  was,  then,  the 
horses. 

When  he  had  decided  this,  he  sat  down  on  a  stump,  and 
went  on  talking  to  her  with  renewed  interest.  After  a  while 
she  laughed,  and  there  came  into  her  face  that  peculiar  bril- 
liancy which  the  conjunction  of  dark  eyes  and  the  gleam  of 
white,  even  teeth  can  give  to  a  thin-cheeked  brunette.  Then 
he  remembered  to  look  at  her  hands,  and  was  relieved  to  find 
them,  although  a  little  roughened  by  toil,  charmingly  shaped 
and. finely  aristocratic — fit  portion  of  the  tall,  well-rounded 
figure,  which  only  needed  self-consciousness  to  be  that  of  a 
young  Diana.  The  girl  seemed  so  happy  and  radiant,  so  im- 
personal in  the  marked  attention  she  gave  to  him,  which  was 
not  unlike  the  attention  she  might  have  given  to  her  grand- 
father, that  Wainwright  recognized  it  at  last  as  only  another 
case  of  his  being  of  no  consequence,  and  smiled  to  himself 
over  it.  Evidently,  if  he  wanted  notice,  he  must,  as  it  were, 
mount  the  horses.  He  had  had  no  especial  intention  of  mak- 
ing excursions  among  the  mountains ;  but  that  was,  appar- 
ently, the  fixed  idea  of  these  horse-owners.  They  were,  for 
some  reason,  pleased  to  be  mysterious ;  he  would  be  myste- 
rious also. 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


301 


"  I  hope  Mr.  Head's  horses  are  good  ones  ?  "  he  said  con- 
fidentially ;  "  I  shall  need  very  good  horses." 

All  her  color  gone  instantly,  and  the  old  cloud  of  anxiety 
on  her  face  again. 

"  Yes,  they  are  good  horses,"  she  answered  ;  and  then  her 
eyes  rested  upon  him,  and  he  read  trouble,  fear,  and  dislike, 
succeeding  each  other  openly  in  their  dark  depths. 

"  Is  it  because  I  am  a  Northerner,  Miss  Dooris  ?  "  he  said 
quietly.  He  had  made  up  his  mind,  rather  unfairly,  to  break 
down  the  fence  between  them  by  a  close  question,  which  so 
young  a  girl  would  not  know  how  to  parry. 

She  started,  and  the  color  rushed  up  all  over  her  face 
again. 

"  Of  course,  it  is  all  right,"  she  answered  hurriedly,  in  a 
low  voice.  "  I  know  that  the  laws  must  be  maintained,  and 
that  some  persons  must  do  the  work  that  you  do.  People 
can  not  always  choose  their  occupations,  I  suppose,  and  no 
doubt  they  —  no  doubt  you  —  I  mean,  that  it  can  not  be 
helped." 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  take  me  for  ?  "  said  Wainwright, 
watching  her. 

"  We  saw  it  at  once ;  Mr.  Head  saw  it,  and  afterward  I 
did  also.  But  we  are  experienced ;  others  may  not  discover 
you  so  soon.  Mr.  Head  is  anxious  to  pilot  you  through  the 
mountains  to  save  you  from  danger." 

"  He  is  very  kind  ;  disinterested,  too." 

"  No,"  said  Honor,  flushing  again  ;  "  I  assure  you  he 
makes  money  by  it  also." 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me  what  it  is  you  take  me  for, 
Miss  Dooris  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  necessary,  is  it  ?  "  replied  Honor  in  a  whisper. 
"  You  are  one  of  the  new  revenue  detectives,  sent  up  here  to 
search  out  the  stills." 

"An  informer — after  the  moonlight  whisky-makers,  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


302 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


Wainwright  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  out  loud, 
as  he  had  not  laughed  for  years. 

"  I  am  not  sure  but  that  it  is  a  compliment,"  he  said  at 
last ;  "  no  one  has  ever  taken  me  for  anything  particular  be- 
fore in  all  my  life."  Then,  when  he  was  sober,  "Miss  Doo- 
ris,"  he  said,  "  I  am  a  man  of  leisure,  residing  in  New  York  ; 
and  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  am  an  idle  vagabond,  with  no 
occupation  even  so  useful  as  that  of  a  revenue  detective." 

In  spite  of  himself,  however,  a  touch  of  contempt  filtered 
into  his  voice.  Then  it  came  to  him  how  the  club-men  would 
enjoy  the  story,  and  again  he  laughed  uproariously.  When 
he  came  to  himself,  Honor  was  crying. 

ill. 

YES,  Honor  was  crying.  The  dire  mistake,  the  contempt, 
and,  worse  than  all,  the  laughter,  had  struck  the  proud  little 
Southern  girl  to  the  heart. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Wainwright,  all  the  gentleman  in 
him  aroused  at  once,  "  why  should  you  care  for  so  small  and 
natural  a  mistake  ?  It  is  all  clear  to  me  now.  I  gave  no  ac- 
count of  myself  coming  over  on  the  stage ;  I  remember,  too, 
that  I  spoke  of  the  moonlight  whisky-makers  myself,  and  that 
I  made  no  effort  to  find  out  what  Mr.  Head  was  alluding 
to  when  he  talked  on  in  his  mysterious  way.  It  is  my  usual 
unpardonable  laziness  which  has  brought  you  to  this  error. 
Pray  forgive  it." 

Honor  cried  on,  unable  to  stop,  but  his  voice  and  words 
had  soothed  her ;  he  stood  beside  her,  hat  in  hand,  and  after 
a  few  moments  she  summoned  self-control  enough  to  dry  her 
eyes  and  put  down  her  handkerchief.  But  her  eyelashes  were 
still  wet,  her  breath  came  tremulously,  and  there  was  a  crim- 
son spot  on  each  cheek.  She  looked,  at  that  moment,  not 
more  than  fifteen  years  old,  and  Wainwright  sat  down,  this 
time  nearer  to  her,  determined  to  make  her  feel  easier.  He 
banished  the  subject  of  her  mistake  at  once,  and  began  talk- 
ing to  her  about  herself.  He  asked  many  questions,  and  she 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  303 

answered  them  humbly,  as  a  Lenten  penitent  might  answer  a 
father  confessor.  She  seemed  to  feel  as  though  she  owed 
him  everything  he  chose  to  take.  She  let  him  enter  and  walk 
through  her  life  and  mind,  through  all  her  hopes  and  plans ; 
one  or  two  closed  doors  he  noted,  but  did  not  try  to  open, 
neither  did  he  let  her  see  that  he  had  discovered  them.  He 
learned  how  poor  they  were ;  he  learned  her  love  for  her  un- 
cle, her  Switzer's  attachment  to  the  mountain-peaks  about 
her ;  he  learned  what  her  daily  life  was ;  and  he  came  near 
enough  to  her  religious  faith,  that  faith  which  had  first  at- 
tracted him,  to  see  how  clear  and  deep  it  was,  like  a  still  pool 
in  a  shaded  glen.  It  was  years  since  Stephen  Wainwright 
had  been  so  close  to  a  young  girl's  soul,  and,  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, he  felt  that  he  was  on  holy  ground. 

When  at  last  he  left  her,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
would  try  an  experiment.  He  would  help  this  child  out  of 
the  quagmire  of  poverty,  and  give  her,  in  a  small  way,  a 
chance.  The  question  was,  how  to  do  it.  He  remained  at 
Ellerby,  made  acquaintances,  and '  asked  questions.  He  pre- 
tended this,  and  pretended  that.  Finally,  after  some  consid- 
eration, he  woke  up  the  old  library  association,  reopened  the 
building,  and  put  in  Honor  as  librarian,  at  a  salary  of  two 
hundred  dollars  a  year.  To  account  for  this,  he  was  obliged, 
of  course,  to  be  much  interested  in  Ellerby ;  his  talk  was  that 
the  place  must  eventually  become  a  summer  resort,  and  that 
money  could  be  very  well  invested  there.  He  therefore  in- 
vested it.  Discovering,  among  other  things,  pink  marble  on 
wild  land  belonging  to  the  Colonel,  he  bought  a  whole  hill- 
side, and  promptly  paid  for  it.  To  balance  this,  he  also 
bought  half  a  mile  of  sulphur  springs  on  the  other  side  of  the 
valley  (the  land  comically  cheap),  and  spoke  of  erecting  a 
hotel  there.  The  whole  of  Ellerby  awoke,  talked,  and  re- 
joiced ;  no  one  dreamed  that  the  dark  eyes  of  one  young  girl 
rfd  effected  it  all. 

Honor  herself  remained  entirely  unconscious.  She  was 
so  openly  happy  over  the  library  that  Wainwright  felt  him- 


304  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

self  already  repaid.  "  It  might  stand  against  some  of  my 
omissions,"  he  said  to  himself. 

One  thing  detained  him  where  he  was ;  then  another. 
He  could  not  buy  property  without  paying  some  attention  to 
it,  and  he  did  not  choose  to  send  for  his  man  of  business. 
He  staid  on,  therefore,  all  summer.  And  he  sent  books  to 
the  library  now  and  then  during  the  winter  that  followed — 
packages  which  the  librarian,  of  course,  was  obliged  to  ac- 
knowledge, answering  at  the  same  time  the  questions  of  the 
letters  which  accompanied  them.  Stephen's  letters  were  al- 
ways formal ;  they  might  have  been  nailed  up  on  the  walls  of 
the  library  for  all  comers  to  read.  He  amused  himself,  how- 
ever, not  a  little  over  the  carefully  written,  painstaking  an- 
swers, in  which  the  librarian  remained  "  with  great  respect  " 
his  "  obliged  servant,  Honor  Dooris." 

The  second  summer  began,  and  he  was  again  among  the 
mountains ;  but  he  should  leave  at  the  end  of  the  month,  he 
said.  In  the  mean  time  it  had  come  about  that  he  was  teach- 
ing the  librarian.  She  needed  instruction,  certainly ;  and  the 
steps  that  led  up  to  it  had  been  so  gradual  that  it  seemed 
natural  enough  now.  But  no  one  knew  the  hundred  little 
things  which  had  been  done  to  make  it  seem  so. 

What  was  he  trying  to  do  ? 

His  cousin,  Adelaide  Kellinger,  determined  to  find  out  that 
point,  was  already  domiciled  with  her  maid  at  the  inn.  There 
had  been  no  concealment  about  Honor ;  Wainwright  had  told 
Adelaide  the  whole  story.  He  also  showed  to  her  the  libra- 
rian's little  letters  whenever  they  came,  and  she  commented 
upon  them  naturally,  and  asked  many  questions.  "  Do  you 
know,  I  feel  really  interested  in  the  child  myself  ?  "  she  said  to 
him  one  day ;  and  it  was  entirely  true. 

When  he  told  her  that  he  was  going  to  the  mountains 
again,  she  asked  if  he  would  not  take  her  with  him.  "  It  will 
be  a  change  from  the  usual  summer  places ;  and,  besides,  I 
find  I  am  lonely  if  long  away  from  you,"  she  said  frankly. 
She  always  put  it  upon  that  ground.  She  had  learned  that 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


3<>5 


nothing  makes  a  man  purr  more  satisfactorily  than  the  hear- 
ing that  the  woman  in  whose  society  he  finds  himself  particu- 
larly comfortable  has  an  especial  liking  for  and  dependence 
upon  himself ;  immediately  he  makes  it  all  a  favor  and  kind- 
ness to  her,  and  is  happy.  So  Adelaide  came  with  Stephen, 
and  did  make  him  more  comfortable.  His  barren  room 
bloomed  with  fifty  things  which  came  out  of  her  trunks  and 
her  ingenuity  ;  she  coaxed  and  bribed  the  cook  ;  she  won  the 
landlady  to  a  later  breakfast.  She  arranged  a  little  parlor,  and 
was  always  there  when  he  came  home,  ready  to  talk  to  him  a 
little,  but  not  too  much  ;  ready  to  divine  his  mood  and  make 
the  whole  atmosphere  accord  with  it  at  once.  They  had 
been  there  three  weeks,  and  of  course  Adelaide  had  met  the 
librarian. 

For  those  three  weeks  she  remained  neutral,  and  studied 
the  ground  ;  then  she  began  to  act.  She  sent  for  John  Royce. 
And  she  threw  continuous  rose-light  around  Honor. 

After  the  final  tableau  of  a  spectacle-play,  a  second  view 
is  sometimes  given  with  the  nymphs  and  fairies  all  made 
doubly  beautiful  by  rose-light.  Mrs.  Kellinger  now  gave  this 
glow.  She  praised  Honor's  beauty. 

Stephen  had  not  observed  it.  How  could  he  be  so  blind  ? 
Why,  the  girl  had  fathomless  eyes,  exquisite  coloring,  the 
form  of  a  Greek  statue,  and  the  loveliest  mouth !  Then  she 
branched  off. 

"  What  a  beautiful  thing  it  would  be  to  see  such  a  girl  as 
that  fall  in  love  ! — a  girl  so  impulsive,  so  ignorant  of  the 
world.  That  is  exactly  the  kind  of  girl  that  really  could  die 
of  a  broken  heart." 

"  Could  she  ?  "  said  Stephen. 

"  Now,  Stephen,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  Honor 
Dooris  is,"  said  Adelaide  warmly.  "  She  is  not  awakened 
yet,  her  prince  has  not  made  himself  known  to  her;  but, 
when  he  does  awaken  her,  she  will  take  him  up  to  the  seventh 
heaven." 

"  That  is— if  she  loves  him." 


306  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"  She  has  seen  so  few  persons  ;  it  would  not  be  a  difficult 
matter,"  said  Adelaide. 

A  few  days  later,  when  she  told  him  that  she  was  thinking 
of  sending  for  John  Royce,  he  made  no  comment,  although 
she  looked  at  him  with  undisguised  wistfulness,  a  lingering 
gaze  that  seemed  to  entreat  his  questions.  But  he  would 
not  question,  and,  obedient  as  always  to  his  will,  she  remained 
silent. 

John  Royce  came.  He  was  another  cousin,  but  a  young 
one,  twenty-five  years  old,  blue-eyed  and  yellow-haired.  He 
kept  his  yellow  hair  ruthlessly  short,  however,  and  he  frowned 
more  or  less  over  his  blue  eyes,  owing  to  much  yachting  and 
squinting  ahead  across  the  glaring  water  to  gain  an  inch's 
length  on  the  next  boat.  He  was  brown  and  big,  with  a 
rolling  gait ;  the  edge  of  a  boat  tilted  at  one  hair's-breadth 
from  going  over  entirely,  was  his  idea  of  a  charming  seat ; 
under  a  tree  before  a  camp-fire,  with  something  more  than  a 
suspicion  of  savage  animals  near,  his  notion  of  a  delightful 
bed.  He  did  not  have  much  money  of  his  own ;  he  was  go- 
ing to  do  something  for  himself  by  and  by  ;  but  Cousin  Ade- 
laide had  always  petted  him,  and  he  had  no  objection  to  a 
hunt  among  those  Southern  mountains.  So  he  came. 

He  had  met  Honor  almost  immediately.  Mrs.  Kellinger 
was  a  welcome  visitor  at  the  Eliot  home ;  she  seemed  to  make 
the  whole  ravine  more  graceful.  The  Colonel's  wife  and  all 
the  children  clustered  around  her  with  delight  every  time  she 
came,  and  the  old  Colonel  himself  renewed  his  youth  in  her 
presence.  She  brought  John  to  call  upon  them  at  once,  and 
she  took  him  to  the  library  also ;  she  made  Honor  come  and 
dine  with  them  at  the  inn.  She  arranged  a  series  of  excur- 
sions in  a  great  mountain-wagon  shaped  like  a  boat,  and 
tilted  high  up  behind,  with  a  canvas  cover  over  a  framework, 
like  a  Shaker  bonnet,  and  drawn  by  six  slow-walking  horses. 
The  wagoner  being  a  postilion,  they  had  the  wagon  to  them- 
selves ;  they  filled  the  interstices  with  Eliot  children  and 
baskets,  and  explored  the  wilder  roads,  going  on  foot  up  the 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  307 

steep  banks  above,  drinking  from  the  ice-cold  spring,  looking 
out  for  rattlesnakes,  plucking  the  superb  rhododendrons  and 
the  flowers  of  the  calico-bush,  and  every  now  and  then  catch- 
ing a  new  glimpse  of  the  unparalleled  crowd  of  peaks  over  to- 
ward the  Tennessee  line.  Stephen  went  everywhere  patiently ; 
Honor  went  delightedly;  John  Royce  went  carelessly;  Mrs. 
Kellinger  went  as  the  velvet  string  which  held  them  all  to- 
gether ;  she  was  so  smooth  that  they  slid  easily. 

But,  in  the  intervals,  Wainwright  still  taught  his  librarian. 

Mrs.  Eliot  had  become  Adelaide's  warm  friend.  The 
sweet-voiced  Southern  wife,  with  her  brood  of  children,  and 
her  calm,  contented  pride,  confided  to  the  Northern  stranger 
the  one  grief  of  her  life,  namely,  that  she  was  the  Colonel's 
second  wife,  and  that  he  had  dearly  loved  the  first ;  anxiety 
as  to  the  uncertain  future  of  her  children  weighed  far  less 
upon  her  mind  than  this.  The  old-time  South  preserved  the 
romance  of  conjugal  love  even  to  silver  hairs ;  there  may  have 
been  no  more  real  love  than  at  the  North,  but  there  was  more 
of  the  manner  of  it.  The  second  month  came  to  its  end ;  it 
was  now  August.  Mrs.  Kellinger  had  sent  many  persons  to 
the  library ;  she  had  roused  up  a  general  interest  in  it ;  vil- 
lagers now  went  there  regularly  for  books,  paying  a  small 
subscription-fee,  which  was  added  to  Honor's  salary.  Honor 
thanked  her  for  this  in  a  rather  awkward  way.  Mrs.  Eliot, 
who  was  present,  did  not  consider  the  matter  of  consequence 
enough  for  thanks.  She  had  never  even  spoken  to  Wain- 
wright of  Honor's  office  of  librarian,  or  the  salary  which  came 
out  of  his  pocket.  Money-matters  were  nothing;  between 
friends  they  were  less  than  nothing.  Stephen  had  two  hours 
alone  with  his  librarian  every  morning,  when  there  was  no 
excursion ;  Mrs.  Kellinger  had  arranged  that,  by  inventing  a 
rule  and  telling  it  to  everybody  in  a  decided  tone :  no  one  was 
expected  at  the  library  before  eleven  o'clock. 

"  Did  you  do  this  ?  "  said  Stephen,  when  he  discovered  it. 

"  I  did." 

"  Why  ?  " 


3o8  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

"  Because  I  thought  you  would  like  it,"  replied  Adelaide. 
He  looked  at  her  questioningly ;  she  answered  immediately  to 
the  look.  "  You  are  interested  in  a  new  study  of  character, 
Stephen ;  you  are  really  doing  the  child  a  world  of  good  too ; 
although,  as  usual,  I  confess  that  my  interest  in  the  matter  is 
confined  principally  to  your  own  entertainment."  She  spoke 
good-humoredly,  and  almost  immediately  afterward  left  him 
to  himself. 

His  mind  ran  back  over  a  long  series  of  little  arrange- 
ments made  for  his  pleasure  on  all  sorts  of  occasions.  "  She 
is  the  best-hearted  woman  in  the  world,"  he  thought.  And 
then  he  took  his  note-book  and  went  over  to  the  library. 

Their  lessons  would  have  amused  a  looker-on ;  but  there 
was  no  looker-on.  Honor  was  interested  or  absent-minded, 
irritable  or  "deeply  respectful,  humble  or  proud,  by  turns ;  she 
regarded  him  as  her  benefactor,  and  she  really  wished  to 
learn  ;  but  she  was  young,  and  impulsive,  and — a  girl.  There 
was  little  conversation  save  upon  the  lessons,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  one  subject.  The  man  of  the  world  had  begun  his 
study  of  this  girl's  deep  religious  faith.  "  If  you  can  give  it  to 
me  also,  or  a  portion  of  it,"  he  had  said,  "  you  will  be  confer- 
ring a  priceless  gift  upon  me,  Miss  Honor." 

Then  Honor  would  throw  down  her  books,  clasp  her 
hands,  and,  with  glowing  cheeks,  talk  to  him  on  sacred  sub- 
jects. Many  a  time  the  tears  would  spring  to  her  eyes  with 
her  own  earnestness ;  many  a  time  she  lost  herself  entirely 
while  pleading  with  her  whole  soul.  He  listened  to  her, 
thanked  her,  and  went  away.  Only  once  did  he  show  any 
emotion :  it  was  when  she  told  him  that  she  prayed  for  him. 

"  Do  you  really  pray  for  me  ?  "  he  said  in  a  low  tone  ; 
then  he  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  sat  silent. 

Honor,  a  little  frightened,  drew  back.  It  seemed  to  her  a 
very  simple  act,  praying  for  any  one :  she  had  prayed  for  peo- 
ple all  her  life. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  Mrs.  Eliot  and  Honor  were  sitting 
in  Adelaide's  parlor  at  the  inn,  whither  she  had  brought  them 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


3°9 


on  their  way  home  from  service.  Royce  and  Stephen  had 
been  discovered,  upon  their  entrance,  in  two  chairs  at  the 
windows  ;  the  former  surrounded  by  a  waste  of  newspapers, 
magazines,  and  novels,  thrown  down  on  the  floor,  a  general 
expression  of  heat  and  weariness  on  his  face.  His  compan- 
ion was  reading  a  small,  compact  volume  in  his  usual  neat 
way.  Big  Royce  was  sprawled  over  three  chairs;  Stephen 
did  not  fill  one.  Big  Royce  was  drumming  on  the  window- 
sill  ;  Stephen  was  motionless.  Yet  Royce,  springing  up  and 
smiling,  his  blue  eyes  gleaming,  and  frank  gladness  on  his 
face,  was  a  picture  that  women  remember ;  while  Stephen, 
rising  without  change  of  expression,  was  a  silent  contradic- 
tion to  their  small  power,  which  is  never  agreeable.  They  all 
sat  talking  for  an  hour,  Mrs.  Eliot  and  Mrs.  Kellinger  con- 
tributing most  of  the  sentences.  Royce  was  in  gay  spirits ; 
Honor  rather  silent.  Suddenly  there  came  a  sharp,  cracking 
sound  ;  they  all  ran  to  the  window.  Through  the  main  street 
of  the  village  a  man  was  running,  followed  by  another,  who, 
three  times  in  their  sight  and  hearing,  fired  at  the  one  in  ad- 
vance. One,  two,  three  times  they  saw  and  heard  him  fire, 
and  the  sickening  feeling  of  seeing  a  man  murdered  in  plain 
sight  came  over  them.  Royce  rushed  down  to  the  street. 
The  victim  had  fallen ;  the  other  man  was  himself  staggering, 
and  in  the  hands  of  a  crowd  which  had  gathered  in  an  in- 
stant. After  a  short  delay  the  two  men  were  borne  away,  one 
to  his  home,  one  to  the  jail.  Royce  returned  hot  and  breath- 
less. 

"  Oh,  how  is  the  poor  man  who  was  shot  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Eliot. 

"  Poor  man,  indeed !  The  other  one  is  the  man  to  be 
pitied,"  said  Royce  angrily.  "  He  is  a  revenue  detective,  and 
was  knocked  down  from  behind  with  a  club  by  this  fellow, 
who  is  a  liquor-seller  here  in  the  village.  The  blow  was  on 
the  skull,  and  a  murderous  one.  Half  blinded  and  maddened, 
he  staggered  to  his  feet,  drew  his  revolver,  and  fired  for  his 
life." 


3io  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Honor  had  grown  white  as  ivory.  She  shook  in  every 
limb,  her  lips  trembled,  and  her  chin  had  dropped  a  little. 
Wainwright  watched  her. 

"  But  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  "  asked  Adelaide. 

"  Moonlight  whisky,  of  course.  The  detective  has  been 
hunting  for  the  stills,  and  these  outlaws  will  kill  the  man  as 
they  have  killed  half  a  dozen  before  him." 

"  What  an  outrage !    Are  there  no  laws  ?  " 

"  Dead  letters." 

"  Or  officers  to  execute  them  ?  " 

"  Dead  men." 

Royce  was  excited  and  aroused.  He  was  young,  and  had 
convictions.  The  laws  should  not  be  over-ridden  and  men 
murdered  in  broad  daylight  by  these  scoundrels  while  he  was 
on  the  scene.  He  took  charge  of  the  detective,  who,  with  his 
bruised  head,  was  put  in  jail,  while  the  liquor-seller  was  al- 
lowed to  have  his  illness  out  in  his  own  house,  one  of  the 
balls  only  having  taken  effect,  and  that  in  a  safe  place  in  the 
shoulder.  Royce,  all  on  fire  for  the  side  of  justice,  wrote  and 
telegraphed  for  troops,  using  the  detective's  signature ;  he 
went  himself  fifteen  miles  on  horseback  to  send  the  dispatch. 
There  were  troops  at  the  State  capital ;  they  had  been  up  to 
the  mountains  before  on  the  same  business ;  they  were,  in- 
deed, quite  accustomed  to  going  up  ;  but  they  accomplished 
nothing.  The  outlaws  kept  themselves  carefully  hidden  in 
their  wild  retreats,  and  the  village  looked  on  as  innocently  as 
a  Quaker  settlement.  A  detective  was  fair  game:  two  of 
them  had  been  shot  in  the  neighborhood  within  the  previous 
year,  and  left  bleeding  in  the  road.  Would  they  never  learn, 
then,  to  keep  out  of  the  mountains  ? 

"  But  is  it  not  an  extraordinary  state  of  things  that  a  vil- 
lage so  large  as  Ellerby  should  be  so  apathetic?"  asked 
Adelaide. 

"  The  villagers  can  do  little :  once  off  the  road,  and  you 
are  in  a  trackless  wilderness,"  said  Stephen.  "  Custom  makes 
law  in  these  regions :  moonlight  whisky  has  always  been 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  311 

made,  and  the  mountaineers  think  they  have  a  right  to  make 
it.  They  look  upon  the  revenue-men  as  spies." 

"  Yes ;  and  they  are  government  officials  and  Northerners 
too,"  added  Royce  hotly — "  mind  that ! " 

He  had  taken  the  matter  in  hand  vigorously.  He  wrote 
and  sent  off  a  dozen  letters  per  day.  The  Department  at 
Washington  had  its  attention  decisively  called  to  this  district 
and  the  outlawry  rampant  there.  It  was  used  to  it. 

In  a  week  the  troops  came — part  of  a  company  of  infantry 
and  a  young  lieutenant,  a  tall  stripling  fresh  from  West  Point. 
His  name  was  Allison ;  he  lisped  and  wore  kid-gloves ;  he 
was  as  dainty  as  a  girl,  and  almost  as  slender.  To  see  the 
short,  red-faced,  burly  detective,  with  his  bandaged  head  and 
stubbed  ringers ;  Royce,  with  his  eagle  eyes  and  impatient 
glance ;  and  this  delicate-handed,  pink-cheeked  boy,  confer- 
ring together,  was  like  a  scene  from  a  play.  The  detective, 
slow  and  cautious,  studied  the  maps ;  Royce,  in  a  hot  hurry 
about  everything,  paced  up  and  down  ;  Allison  examined  his 
almond-shaped  nails  and  hummed  a  tune.  The  detective  had 
his  suspicions  concerning  Eagle  Knob ;  the  troops  could  take 
the  river-road,  turn  off  at  Butter  Glen,  and  climb  the  moun- 
tain at  that  point.  In  the  mean  while  all  was  kept  quiet ;  it 
was  given  out  that  the  men  were  to  search  South  Gap,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley. 

On  the  very  night  appointed  for  the  start,  an  old  lady,  who 
had  three  granddaughters  from  the  low  country  spending  the 
summer  with  her,  opened  her  house,  lit  up  her  candles,  and 
gave  a  ball,  with  the  village  fiddlers  for  musicians  and  her 
old  black  cook's  plum-cake  for  refreshments.  Royce  was  to 
accompany  the  troops ;  Adelaide  had  not  been  able  to  pre- 
vent it.  She  went  to  Stephen  in  distress,  and  then  Stephen 
proposed  to  Royce  to  send  halt  a  dozen  stout  villagers  in  his 
place — he,  Stephen,  paying  all  expenses. 

"  There  are  some  things,  Wainwright,  that  even  your 
money  can  not  do,"  replied  Royce. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Stephen. 


312 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


Royce  now  announced  that  they  must  all  go  to  the  ball  to 
divert  suspicion ;  Allison  too.  But  Allison  had  no  invitation. 
Royce  went  to  Mrs.  Eliot,  and  begged  her  influence ;  Mrs. 
Eliot  sent  Honor  to  the  old  lady,  and  the  invitation  came. 

"  If  he  could  avoid  wearing  his  uniform — "  suggested 
Mrs.  Eliot  to  Adelaide,  a  little  nervously. 

"  But  he  has  nothing  else  with  him,  I  fear,"  answered 
Adelaide. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  the  lieutenant  had  a  full  even- 
ing-suit in  his  valise,  with  white  tie  and  white  gloves  also. 
Royce  surveyed  these  habiliments  and  their  owner  with  won- 
der. He  himself,  coming  from  New  York,  with  all  the  bag- 
gage he  wanted,  had  only  a  black  coat.  His  costume  must 
be  necessarily  of  the  composite  order  ;  but  the  composite  or- 
der was  well  known  at  Ellerby. 

Allison  was  the  belle  of  the  ball.  He  danced  charmingly, 
and  murmured  the  most  delightful  things  to  all  his  partners 
in  rapid  succession.  He  was  the  only  -man  in  full  evening- 
dress  present,  and  the  pink  flush  on  his  cheeks,  and  his  tall, 
slender  figure  swaying  around  in  the  waltz,  were  long  remem- 
bered in  Ellerby.  Honor  was  there  in  a  white  muslin  which 
had  been  several  times  washed  and  repaired ;  there  was  no 
flow  to  her  drapery,  and  she  looked  awkward.  She  was  pale 
and  silent.  Mrs.  Kellinger,  clothed  to  the  chin  and  wrists, 
with  no  pronounced  color  about  her,  was  the  one  noticeable 
woman  present.  Royce  did  not  dance.  He  found  the  rooms 
hot  and  the  people  tiresome ;  he  was  in  a  fever  to  be  off. 
Stephen  sat  on  the  piazza,  and  looked  in  through  the  window. 
At  one  o'clock  it  was  over.  Allison  had  danced  every  dance. 
He  went  back  to  the  inn  with  his  pockets  stuffed  with  gloves, 
withered  rose-buds,  knots  of  ribbon,  and  even,  it  was  whis- 
pered, a  lock  of  golden  hair.  The  next  hour,  in  the  deep 
darkness,  the  troops  started. 

At  five  minutes  before  eleven  the  next  morning,  Stephen 
was  bringing  his  algebra-lesson  to  a  close,  when  a  distant 
clatter  in  the  gorge  was  heard,  a  tramping  sound ;  men  were 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  313 

running  out  of  the  mill  opposite  and  gazing  curiously  up  the 
road.  Honor  was  at  the  window  in  a  flash,  Stephen  beside 
her.  The  troops  were  returning.  They  had  laid  hands  upon 
a  mountain-wagon  and  marched  upon  each  side  of  it  like  a 
guard  of  honor.  Royce  sat  in  the  wagon,  his  face  hidden  in 
his  hands. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Allison  ?  "  said  Honor,  and  her  voice  was 
but  a  whisper.  She  stood  back  of  the  curtain,  trembling  vio- 
lently. 

Royce  did  not  look  up  as  the  procession  passed  the  libra- 
ry ;  without  a  word  Wainwright  and  Honor  went  out,  locked 
the  door  behind  them,  and  followed  the  wagon  toward  the 
village.  Everybody  did  the  same ;  the  houses  were  emptied 
of  their  dwellers.  The  whole  village  came  together  to  see 
the  body  of  the  boy-officer  lifted  out  and  carried  into  the  inn. 
Allison  was  dead. 

The  buttons  on  his  uniform  gleamed  as  they  bore  him  in, 
and  his  white  hands  hung  lifelessly  down.  He  had  fought 
like  a  tiger,  they  said,  and  had  led  his  men  on  with  the  most 
intrepid,  daring  courage  to  the  very  last.  It  seemed  that  they 
had  fallen  into  an  ambuscade,  and  had  accomplished  nothing. 
Singularly  enough,  the  young  lieutenant  was  the  only  one 
killed  ;  Royce  was  sure  that  he  had  seen  one  of  the  outlaws 
deliberately  single  him  out  and  fire — a  dark,  haggard-looking 
fellow. 

Stephen  took  Honor  up  to  Adelaide's  parlor.  Adelaide 
was  there  wringing  her  hands.  She  had  fastened  the  boy's 
collar  for  him  at  two  o'clock  the  night  before,  when  he  had 
rather  absurdly  pretended  that  he  could  not  make  it  stay  but- 
toned ;  and  she  had  tapped  him  on  the  cheek  reprovingly  for 
his  sentimental  looks.  "  This  ball  has  spoiled  you,  foolish 
boy,"  she  had  said ;  "  march  off  into  the  mountains  and  get 
rid  of  this  nonsense."  Ah,  well,  he  was  well  rid  of  it  now ! 

Honor  stood  as  if  transfixed,  listening.  Presently  the  door 
opened,  and  Royce  came  in.  "  Let  me  get  somewhere  where 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  cry,"  he  said ;  and,  sinking  down,  he 
H 


3 14  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

laid  his  head  upon  his  arms  on  the  table  and  cried  like  a  child. 
Honor  went  out  of  the  room  hastily  ;  she  hardly  noticed  that 
Stephen  was  with  her.  When  she  reached  the  ravine,  she, 
too,  sank  down  on  the  grass,  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  and 
sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would  break.  Stephen  looked  at 
her  irresolutely,  then  moved  away  some  paces,  and,  sitting 
down  on  a  stump,  waited.  Honor  had  danced  with  Allison : 
could  it  be — but  no ;  it  was  only  the  sudden  horror  of  the 
thing. 

Allison  was  buried  in  the  little  village  churchyard ;  the 
whole  country-side  came  to  the  funeral.  The  old  Episcopal 
rector  read  the  burial-service,  and  his  voice  shook  a  little  as 
the  young  head  was  laid  low  in  the  deep  grave.  Brother 
Bethuel  had  come  down  from  the  mountains  on  Marcher,  and 
had  asked  permission  to  lead  the  singing ;  he  stood  by  the 
grave,  and,  with  uncovered  head  and  uplifted  eyes,  sang  with 
marvelous  sweetness  and  power  an  old  Methodist  hymn,  in 
which  all  the  throng  soon  joined.  The  young  girls  who  had 
danced  at  the  ball  sobbed  aloud.  Honor  alone  stood  tearless ; 
but  she  had  brought  her  choicest  roses  to  lay  over  the  dead 
boy's  feet,  where  no  one  could  see  them,  and  she  had  stooped 
and  kissed  his  icy  forehead  in  the  darkened  room  before  he 
was  carried  out :  Stephen  saw  her  do  it.  After  the  funeral, 
Brother  Bethuel  and  Honor  went  away  together ;  Stephen  re- 
turned to  the  inn.  Adelaide  had  taken  upon  herself  the  task 
of  answering  the  letters.  Allison  had  no  father  or  mother, 
but  his  other  relatives  and  friends  were  writing.  Royce,  his 
one  young  burst  of  grief  over,  went  about  sternly,  his  whole 
soul  set  on  revenge.  Now  troops  came :  an  officer  of  the 
United  States  army  had  been  killed,  and  the  Department  was 
aroused  at  last.  There  were  several  officers  at  Ellerby  now, 
older  men  than  Allison  and  more  experienced  ;  a  new  expe- 
dition was  to  be  sent  into  the  mountains  to  route  these  ban- 
ditti and  make  an  end  of  them.  Royce  was  going  as  guide  ; 
he  knew  where  the  former  attack  had  been  made,  and  he 
knew,  also,  the  detective's  reasons  for  suspecting  Eagle  Knob, 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  315 

the  detective  himself  being  now  out  of  the  field,  owing  to 
brain-fever:  the  United  States  authorities  had  ordered  him 
out  of  jail,  and  he  was  at  the  inn,  having  his  fever  comfor- 
tably on  the  ground-floor.  Honor  was  with  Adelaide  almost 
constantly  now.  The  elder  woman,  who  always  received  her 
caressingly,  seemed  puzzled  by  the  girl's  peculiar  manner. 
She  said  little,  but  sat  and  listened  to  every  word,  turning  her 
dark  eyes  slowly  from  one  speaker  to  the  next.  Royce  came 
and  went,  brought  in  his  maps,  talked,  and  every  now  and  then 
made  the  vases  on  the  table  ring  as  he  brought  down  his 
strong  hand  with  an  emphasis  of  defiance. 

"  I  can  not  study,"  Honor  had  said  to  Stephen  when  he 
made  some  allusion  to  their  morning  hours.  She  said  it  sim- 
ply, without  excuse  or  disguise ;  he  did  not  ask  her  again. 

The  expedition  was  to  start  on  Monday  night.  The  whole 
village,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  carefully  intrusted  with 
the  secret  that  it  was  to  go  on  Tuesday.  But  on  Sunday 
evening  Honor  discovered  that  before  midnight  the  hounds 
were  to  be  let  slip.  The  very  soldiers  themselves  did  not 
know  it.  How  did  the  girl  learn  it,  then?  She  divined  it 
from  some  indefinable  signs  in  Royce.  Even  Adelaide  did 
not  suspect  it ;  and  Stephen  saw  only  the  girl's  own  restless- 
ness. She  slipped  away  like  a  ghost — so  like  one  that  Stephen 
himself  did  not  see  her  go.  He  followed  her,  however,  almost 
immediately ;  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  go  through  the  village 
alone.  He  was  some  distance  behind  her.  To  his  surprise, 
she  did  not  go  homeward,  but  walked  rapidly  down  toward 
the  river-road.  There  was  fickle  moonlight  now  and  then ; 
he  dropped  still  farther  behind,  and  followed  her,  full  of  con- 
jecture, which  was  not  so  much  curiosity  as  pain.  It  was 
still  early  in  the  evening,  yet  too  late  for  her  to  be  out  there 
on  the  river-road  alone.  This  innocent  young  girl — this  child 
— where,  where  was  she  going  ?  He  let  her  walk  on  for  a 
mile,  and  then  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  stop  her. 
They  were  far  beyond  the  houses  now,  and  the  road  was 
lonely  and  wild ;  the  roar  of  the  river  over  its  broad,  rock- 


316  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

dotted,  uneven  bed,  hid  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  as  he 
climbed  up  the  steep  bank,  ran  forward,  and  came  down  into 
the  road  in  advance  of  her. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Miss  Honor  ?  "  he  said,  showing 
himself,  and  speaking  quietly. 

She  started  back,  and  gasped  out  his  name. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  he  answered,  "  Stephen  Wainwright.  I  am 
alone ;  you  need  not  be  frightened." 

She  came  close  up  to  him  and  took  his  hand. 

"  Do  not  stop  me,"  she  said  entreatingly.  "  I  am  on  an 
errand  of  life  and  death  ! " 

"  I  will  go  in  your  place,  Honor." 

"  You  can  not." 

"  Yes,  I  can.     But  you  shall  not." 

"  Will  you  betray  me,  then  ?  "  she  said,  in  an  agonized 
tone. 

"  No  ;  but  you  will  tell  me  what  it  is,  and  I  will  go  for 
you." 

"  I  tell  you,  you  can  not  go." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  know ;  and,  besides— you  would  not." 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  ask  me  to  do,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Anything  ?  " 

"  Anything." 

She  hesitated,  looking  at  him. 

"  Do  you  give  me  your  word  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  But — but  it  is  an  enormous  thing  you  are  doing  for  me." 

"  I  know  it  is." 

"  Oh,  let  me  go — let  me  go  myself ! "  she  cried  suddenly, 
with  a  half  sob  ;  "  it  is  so  much  better." 

"  I  will  never  let  you  go,"  said  Stephen.  His  voice  was  in- 
flexible. She  surveyed  him  tremulously,  hopelessly ;  then  sank 
down  upon  her  knees,  praying,  but  not  to  him.  Stephen  took 
off  his  hat,  and  waited,  bareheaded.  Itjwas  but  a  moment ; 
then  she  rose*  "  My  cousin,  Richard  Eliot,  my  uncle's  eldest 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


317 


son,  has  been  with  these  men,  at  one  of  their  hiding-places, 
for  some  months.  My  uncle  knows  nothing  of  it ;  but  Brother 
Bethuel  is  in  the  secret,  and  keeps  watch  of  him." 

"  Your  cousin  is  Masters,  then  ?  " 

"  He  is.  Ask  no  more  questions,  but  hasten  on ;  take  the 
first  broad  trail  which  leaves  the  road  on  the  right,  follow  it 
until  you  come  to  Brother  Bethuel's  house  ;  you  can  not  miss 
it ;  it  is  the  only  one.  He  will  guide  you  to  the  place  where 
Richard  is,  and  you  must  warn  him  that  the  troops  are  com- 
ing." 

"  Only  one  question,  Honor.  Come  out  into  the  moon- 
light ;  give  me  both  your  hands.  Do  you  love  this  man  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly.  She  gave  a  quick,  strong  start, 
as  though  she  must  break  away  from  him  at  all  hazards,  and 
turned  darkly  red,  the  deep,  almost  painful,  blush  of  the 
brunette.  Her  hands  shook  in  his  grasp,  tears  of  shame  rose 
in  her  eyes ;  it  was  as  though  some  one  had  struck  her  in  the 
face. 

"Do  you  love  this  Eliot?"  repeated  Stephen,  compelling 
her  still  to  meet  his  eyes. 

She  drew  in  her  breath  suddenly,  and  answered,  with  a 
rush  of  quick  words :  "  No,  no,  no  !  Not  in  the  way  you 
mean.  But  he  is  my  cousin.  Go !  " 

He  went.  Nearly  two  miles  farther  down  the  road  the 
trail  turned  off ;  it  climbed  directly  up  a  glen  by  the  side  of  a 
brook  which  ran  downward  to  the  river  in  a  series  of  little 
waterfalls.  It  was  wide  enough  for  a  horse,  and  showed  the 
track  of  Marcher's  hoofs.  It  came  out  on  a  flank  of  the 
mountain  and  turned  westward,  then  northward,  then  straight 
up  again  through  the  thick  woods  to  a  house  whose  light 
shone  down  like  a  beacon,  and  guided  him. 

Wainwright  knocked ;  Brother  Bethuel  opened,  started 
slightly,  then  recovered  himself,  and  welcomed  his  guest 
effusively. 

"  Is  there  any  one  in  the  house  besides  ourselves  ?  "  said 
Stephen,  ignorant  as  to  whether  there  was  or  was  not  a  Mrs. 


3i8  UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Head.  There  was ;  but  she  had  gone,  with  her  five  offspring, 
to  visit  her  mother  in  Tennessee. 

"  Then,"  said  Stephen,  "  take  me  immediately  to  Richard 
Eliot." 

The  little  minister  stared  innocently  at  his  guest. 

"  Take  you  where  ?  "  he  repeated,  with  surprised  face. 

"Come,"  said  Stephen,  "you  need  not  conceal.  Miss 
Dooris  herself  sent  me.  I  am  to  warn  this  Eliot  that  the 
troops  are  on  the  way — have  probably  already  left  Ellerby." 

The  little  man,  convinced,  sprang  for  his  lantern,  lighted 
it,  and  hurried  out,  followed  by  Wainwright.  He  ran  more 
than  he  walked;  he  climbed  over  the  rocks;  he  galloped 
down  the  gullies  and  up  the  other  side ;  he  said  not  a  word, 
but  hurried,  closely  followed  by  Stephen,  who  was  beginning 
to  feel  spent,  until  he  reached  the  foot  of  a  wall  of  rock,  the 
highest  ledge  of  Eagle  Knob.  Here  he  stood  still  and  whistled. 
Stephen  sat  down,  and  tried  to  recover  his  breath.  After  a 
moment  or  two  a  whistle  answered  from  above,  and  the  mis- 
sionary imitated  the  cry  of  a  night-bird,  one,  two,  three  times. 
He  then  sat  down  beside  Wainwright,  and  wiped  his  fore- 
head. "  He  will  be  here  in  a  moment,"  he  said.  In  a  short 
time,  coming  up  as  if  from  the  bowels  of  the  mountain,  a 
figure  stood  beside  them.  Brother  Bethuel  had  closed  the 
slide  of  his  lantern,  and  Wainwright  could  not  see  the  face. 
"  Miss  Dooris  sent  me,"  he  began.  "  I  am  to  warn  you  that 
the  troops  are  on  their  way  hither  to-night,  and  that  they  have 
a  clew  to  your  hiding-place." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  the  man. 

"  I  am  Miss  Dooris's  messenger ;  that  is  enough." 

The  man  muttered  an  oath. 

Brother  Bethuel  lifted  up  his  hands  with  a  deprecating 
gesture. 

"  You  do  not  mean  it,  Richard  ;  you  know  you  do  not. — 
Lord,  forgive  him ! "  he  murmured. 

"  Well,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  "  said  the  man.  "  Did  she  send 
any  word  ?  " 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  319 

"  Only  that  you  must  escape." 

"  Escape  !  Easy  enough  to  say.  But  where  am  I  to  go  ? 
Did  she  send  any  money  ?  " 

"  She  will,"  said  Stephen,  improvising. 

"When?" 

"  To-morrow." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  Quite  a  sum ;  as  much  as  you  need." 

"  Is  she  so  flush,  then  ?  " 

"  She  is,  as  you  say — flush,"  replied  Stephen. 

Brother  Bethuel  had  listened  breathlessly  to  this  conversa- 
tion ;  and  when  Eliot  said,  fretfully,  "  But  where  am  I  to  go 
now — to-night  ?  "  he  answered  :  "  Home  with  me,  Dick.  I 
can  conceal  you  for  one  night ;  nobody  suspects  me.  The 
Lord  will  forgive ;  it  is  an  Eliot." 

"  Wait  until  I  warn  the  fellows,  then,"  said  the  man,  dis- 
appearing suddenly  in  the  same  way  he  had  appeared.  Then 
Stephen,  who  had  not  risen  from  his  seat,  felt  a  pair  of  arms 
thrown  around  his  neck;  the  little  brother  was  embracing 
him  fervently. 

"  God  bless  you !  God  bless  you ! "  he  whispered.  "  We 
will  get  him  safely  out  of  the  country  this  time,  with  your  aid, 
Mr.  Wainwright.  An  Eliot,  mind  you ;  a  real  Eliot,  poor 
fellow!" 

But  the  real  Eliot  had  returned,  and  Brother  Bethuel  led 
the  way  down  the  mountain.  They  walked  in  single  file,  and 
Stephen  saw  that  the  man  in  front  of  him  was  tall  and  power- 
ful. They  reached  the  house,  and  the  minister  took  the  fugi- 
tive down  into  his  cellar,  supplying  him  with  food,  but  no 
light. 

"Make  no  sound,"  he  said.  "Even  if  the  house  is  full  of 
soldiers,  you  are  safe ;  no  one  suspects  me."  He  closed  the 
horizontal  door,  and  then  turned  to  Wainwright.  "  What  are 
you  going  to  do  ?  "  he  asked,  his  small  face  wrinkled  with 
anxiety. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  Ellerby." 


320 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


"  And  when  will  you  return  with  the  money?  " 

"  Some  time  to-morrow." 

"I  will  go  with  you  as  far  as  the  road,"  said  Brother 
Bethuel ;  "  I  want  to  see  if  the  troops  are  near." 

"  Who  is  this  Eliot  ?  "  asked  Stephen,  as  they  went  down 
the  glen. 

"  The  Colonel's  eldest  son,  the  only  child  by  the  first  wife. 
His  father  has  heard  nothing  of  him  for  several  years ;  it  is 
the  grief  of  the  old  man's  life." 

"  What  is  he  doing  here  ?  " 

"Well,  he  is  a  wild  boy  —  always  was,"  said  Brother 
Bethuel  reluctantly.  "  Lately  he  has  been  living  with  a  gang 
of  these  whisky-men." 

"  And  Miss  Dooris  knows  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  was  always  fond  of  Honor  when  she  was  a 
child,  and  latterly  he  has — has  fallen  into  a  way  of  depending 
upon  her." 

"  Why  does  he  not  come  out  of  the  woods,  go  to  work, 
and  behave  like  a  civilized  man  ?  "  said  Wainwright,  in  a  tone 
of  disgust.  "  I  have  no  patience  with  such  fellows." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  said  Brother  Bethuel  earnestly. 
"  You  are  going  to  help  him,  you  know." 

"  Well,  we  will  send  him  far  enough  away  this  time — to 
Australia,  if  he  will  go,"  said  Stephen.  "  The  country  will  be 
well  rid  of  him." 

"  You  do  not,  perhaps,  understand  exactly,"  said  Brother 
Bethuel  timidly,  after  a  moment's  silence.  "  Eliot  fought  all 
through  the  war — fought  bravely,  nobly.  But,  when  peace 
came,  there  seemed  to  be  no  place  for  him.  He  was  not 
adapted  to — to  commerce ;  he  felt  it  a  degradation.  Hence 
his  present  position.  But  he  did  not  choose  it  voluntarily; 
he — he  drifted  into  it." 

"  Yes,  as  you  say,  drifted,"  said  Stephen  dryly.  "  Will  the 
other  men  get  away  in  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  they  are  already  gone.  There  is  a  cave,  and  a 
passage  upward  through  clefts  in  the  rocks  to  the  glen  where 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


321 


their  still  is ;  it  is  a  natural  hiding-place.  But  they  will  not 
even  stay  there ;  they  will  go  to  another  of  their  haunts." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Thank  the  Lord,  I  do  not  know !  really  and  truly,  I  do 
not  know,"  ejaculated  the  little  minister  fervently.  "  My  only 
interest  in  them,  the  only  charge  upon  my  conscience,  has 
been  Eliot  himself.  You  do  not  understand,  and  I  may  not 
be  able  to  explain  it  to  you,  Mr.  Wainwright,  but — I  love  the 
Eliots  !  I  have  loved  them  all  my  life.  I  was  born  upon  their 
land,  I  revered  them  in  childhood,  I  honored  them  in  youth,  I 
love  them  in  age.  They  bear  one  of  our  great  State  names ; 
they  have  been  our  rulers  and  our  leaders  for  generations.  I 
love  them,  every  one."  Wainwright  made  no  answer;  the 
little  man  went  on :  "  This  son  has  been  a  sad,  wild  boy  al- 
ways— has  nearly  broken  his  father's  heart.  But  he  is  an 
Eliot  still ;  the  little  I  can  do  for  him  I  will  do  gladly  until  I 
die." 

"Or  until  he  does,"  suggested  Stephen.  "One  of  this 
gang  shot  Allison ;  was  this  Eliot  of  yours  the  marksman  ?  " 

Brother  Bethuel  was  silent.  Stephen  turned  and  saw  by 
the  lantern's  gleam  the  trouble  and  agitation  on  his  face. 

"  He  did  it,  I  see,"  said  Stephen,  "  and  you  know  he  did 
it.  It  was  murder." 

"  No,  no — war,"  said  the  missionary,  with  dry  lips.  They 
had  reached  the  road  and  looked  down  it ;  the  moonlight  was 
unclouded  now.  They  could  see  nothing,  but  they  thought 
they  heard  sounds.  Brother  Bethuel  went  back  up  the  glen, 
and  Wainwright,  turning  into  the  woods,  made  his  way  along 
in  the  deep  shadows  above  the  road.  He  met  the  soldiers 
after  a  while,  marching  sturdily,  and  remained  motionless  be- 
hind a  tree-trunk  until  they  had  passed;  then,  descending 
into  the  track,  he  walked  rapidly  back  to  the  village.  But, 
with  all  his  haste  and  all  his  skill,  he  did  not  reach  his  room 
unobserved ;  Adelaide  saw  him  enter,  and  noted  the  hour. 

The  troops  came  back  at  noon  the  next  day,  not  having 
discovered  the  foe.  Honor  was  with  Adelaide,  pretending  to 


322 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


sew,  but  her  mind  was  astray ;  Adelaide  watched  her  closely. 
Stephen  was  present,  quiet  and  taciturn  as  usual.  He  had 
succeeded  in  conveying  to  the  girl,  unobserved,  a  slip  of  paper, 
on  which  was  written  :  "  Eliot  is  hidden  in  the  cellar  of  Head's 
house.  I  am  going  out  there  this  afternoon,  and  you  may 
feel  assured  that,  in  a  day  or  two  more,  he  will  be  out  of  the 
mountains,  and  in  permanent  safety."  But  he  had  not  been 
able  to  exchange  any  worde  with  her. 

Royce  came  in,  foiled,  tired,  and  out  of  temper. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  little  minister,  we  should  have 
had  nothing  at  all  for  our  pains,"  he  said,  when,  the  first  an- 
noyed heat  over,  he,  having  been  left  in  the  mean  while  un- 
vexed  by  questions  owing  to  Adelaide's  tact,  began  to  feel 
himself  like  telling  the  story.  "  He  heard  us  down  in  the  road, 
came  to  meet  us,  and  advised  us  what  to  do.  It  seems  that 
he  too  has  had  his  suspicions  about  Eagle  Knob,  and  he  took 
his  lantern  and  guided  us  up  there.  We  hunted  about  and 
found  one  of  their  hiding-places,  showing  traces,  too,  of  re- 
cent occupation ;  but  we  could  not  find  the  men  or  the  still. 
The  troops  will  take  rations,  however,  next  time,  and  make  a 
regular  campaign  of  it :  we  shall  unearth  the  scoundrels  yet." 

"  But  you  will  not  think  it  necessary  to  go  again,  John  ?  " 
said  Adelaide. 

"  Not  necessary,  but  agreeable,  Cousin  Adelaide.  I  will 
not  leave  these  mountains  until  the  murderer  of  Allison  is 
caught — I  was  going  to  say  shot,  but  hanging  is  better,"  said 
Royce. 

Honor  gazed  at  him  with  helpless,  fascinated  eyes.  Mrs. 
Kellinger  noted  the  expression.  There  was  evidently  another 
secret :  she  had  already  divined  one. 

Soon  afterward  Honor  went  home,  and  Stephen  did  not 
accompany  her.  Adelaide  noted  that.  She  noted  also  that 
he  sat  longer  than  usual  in  her  parlor  after  the  early  dinner, 
smoking  cigarettes  and  becoming  gradually  more  and  more 
drowsy,  until  at  last,  newspaper  in  hand,  he  sauntered  off  to 
his  own  room,  as  if  for  a  siesta.  It  was  too  well  acted.  She 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


3*3 


said  to  herself,  with  conviction,  "  He  is  going  out !  "  A  wo- 
man can  deceive  admirably  in  little  things ;  a  man  can  not. 
He  can  keep  the  secret  of  an  assassination,  but  not  of  a  clam 
supper.  The  very  cat  discovers  it.  Adelaide  went  to  her 
room,  put  on  her  trim  little  walking-boots  and  English  round 
hat,  and,  slipping  quietly  out  of  the  house,  walked  down  the 
road  to  a  wooded  knoll  she  remembered,  a  little  elevation  that 
commanded  the  valley  and  the  village ;  here,  under  a  tree,  she 
sat  waiting.  She  had  a  volume  of  Landor :  it  was  one  of 
Wainwright's  ways  to  like  Landor.  After  half  an  hour  had 
passed,  she  heard,  as  she  had  expected  to  hear,  footsteps ;  she 
looked  up.  Wainwright  was  passing.  "  Why — is  it  you  ?  " 
she  called  out.  "  I  thought  you  would  sleep  for  two  hours  at 
least.  Sit  down  here  awhile  and  breathe  this  delicious  air 
with  me." 

Wainwright,  outwardly  undisturbed,  left  the  road,  came 
up  the  knoll,  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  Being  in  the  shade, 
he  took  off  his  hat  and  threw  himself  back  on  the  grass.  But 
that  did  not  make  him  look  any  larger.  Only  a  broad- 
shouldered,  big  fellow  can  amount  to  anything  when  lying 
down  in  the  open  air :  he  must  crush  with  his  careless  length 
a  good  wide  space  of  grass  and  daisies,  or  he  will  inevitably 
be  overcome  by  the  preponderant  weight  of  Nature  —  the 
fathomless  sky  above,  the  stretch  of  earth  on  each  side. 
Wainwright  took  up  the  volume,  which  Adelaide  did  not  con- 
ceal ;  that  he  had  found  her  reading  his  favorite  author  se- 
cretly was  another  of  the  little  facts  with  which  she  gemmed 
his  life.  "  What  do  you  discover  to  like  ?  "  he  asked. 

" '  His  bugles  on  the  Pyrenees  dissolved  the  trance  of  Eu- 
rope ' ;  and,  '  When  the  war  is  over,  let  us  sail  among  the  isl- 
ands of  the  ^Egean  and  be  as  young  as  ever ' ;  and,  '  We  are 
poor  indeed  when  we  have  no  half-wishes  left  us,'  "  said  Ade- 
laide, musically  quoting.  "  Then  there  is  the  '  Artemidora.'  " 

"  You  noticed  that  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Meanwhile,  the  man  was  thinking,  "  How  can  I  get  away 


324  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

unsuspected  ?  "  and  the  woman,  "  How  can  I  make  him  tell 
me  ?  " 

They  talked  some  time  longer;  then  Adelaide  made  up 
her  mind  to  go  into  action. 

Adelaide  (quietly).  "  There  is  a  change  in  you,  Stephen. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  cause." 

Stephen.  "  We  all  change  as  time  moves  on." 

Adelaide.  "But  this  is  something  different.  I  have  no- 
ticed— " 

Stephen.  "What?" 

Adelaide.  "  No  one  observes  you  so  closely  as  I  do, 
Stephen :  my  life  is  bound  up  in  yours ;  your  interests  are 
mine.  Anything  that  is  for  your  happiness  engrosses  me; 
anything  that  threatens  it  disturbs  me.  Let  us  speak  plainly, 
then :  you  are  interested  in  Honor  Dooris." 

Stephen.  "  I  am." 

Adelaide.  "  More  than  that — you  love  her." 

Stephen.  "  What  is  love,  Adelaide  ?  " 

Adelaide  (with  emotion).  "  It  was  Ralph's  feeling  for  me, 
Stephen.  He  is  gone,  but  I  have  the  warm  memory  in  my 
heart.  Somebody  loved  me  once,  and  with  all  his  soul." 
(Leaning  forward  with  tears  in  her  eyes  :)  "  Take  this  young 
girl,  Stephen ;  yes,  take  her.  She  will  give  you  what  you  have 
never  had  in  your  life,  poor  fellow ! — real  happiness." 

Wainwright  was  silent. 

Adelaide.  "  Ah  !  I  have  known  it  a  long  time.  You  spent 
the  whole  of  last  summer  here  ;  what  did  that  mean  ?  You 
wrote  to  her  at  intervals  all  through  the  winter.  You  are 
here  again.  You  love  to  study  her  girlish  heart,  to  open  the 
doors  of  her  mind."  (Rapidly:)  "And  have  I  not  helped 
you  ?  I  have,  I  have.  Was  I  not  the  quiet  listener  to  all 
those  first  guarded  descriptions  of  yours  ?  Did  I  not  com- 
ment upon  each  and  every  word  of  those  careful  little  letters 
of  hers,  and  follow  every  possibility  of  their  meaning  out  to  its 
fullest  extent  ?  All  this  to  please  you.  But,  when  I  came 
here  and  saw  the  child  with  my  own  eyes,  did  I  not  at  once 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  325 

range  myself  really  upon  your  side?  Have  I  not  had  her 
here  ?  Did  I  not  form  a  close  acquaintance  with  her  family  ? 
Did  I  not  give  you  those  morning  hours  with  her  at  the 
library  ?  And  am  I  not  here  also  to  answer  for  her,  to  de- 
scribe her  to  your  friends,  to  uphold  your  choice,  to  bring  out 
and  develop  her  striking  beauty  ?  " 

Stephen.  "  But  she  is  not  beautiful." 

Adelaide.  "  She  is.  Let  me  dress  her  once  or  twice,  and 
New  York  shall  rave  over  her.  I  have  had  your  interests  all 
the  time  at  heart,  Stephen.  Was  it  not  I  who  sent  for  John 
Royce  ?  And  did  you  not  see  why  I  sent  for  him  ?  It  was 
to  try  her.  I  have  given  her  every  chance  to  see  him,  to  be 
with  him,  to  admire  him.  He  is  near  her  own  age,  and  he  is 
a  handsome  fellow,  full  of  life  and  spirit.  But  you  see  as  well 
as  I  do  that  she  has  come  out  unscathed.  Take  her,  then, 
Stephen ;  you  can  do  it  safely,  young  as  she  is,  for  the  man 
she  first  loves  she  will  love  always." 

As  she  spoke,  an  almost  imperceptible  tremor  showed  it- 
self around  the  mouth  of  the  small,  plain,  young-old  man  who 
was  lying  on  the  grass  beside  her ;  he  seemed  to  be  conscious 
of  it  himself,  and  covered  his  mouth  with  his  hand. 

Adelaide.  "  But  there  is  something  which  you  must  tell 
me  now,  Stephen.  You  can  not  be  in  league  with  these  out- 
laws; is  it  Honor,  then?  You  had  better  tell.  Her  uncle 
and  aunt  evidently  know  nothing  of  it,  and  the  child  should 
have  a  woman-friend  by  her  side.  You  know  I  would  cut 
myself  up  into  small  pieces  for  you,  Stephen ;  let  me  be  your 
ally  in  this,  too.  Is  it  not  best  for  Honor  that  I  should  know 
everything  ?  Shall  I  not  be  her  true  friend  when  she  is  your 
wife — your  sweet  young  wife,  Stephen,  in  that  old  house  of 
yours  which  we  will  fit  up  for  her  together,  and  where  you  will 
let  me  come  and  see  you,  will  you  not,  your  faithful,  loving 
cousin  ?  "  Her  voice  broke  ;  she  turned  her  head  away.  Her 
emotion  was  real.  The  man  by  her  side,  urged  at  last  out  of 
his  gray  reticence  by  his  own  deep  longing,  which  welled  up 
irresistibly  to  meet  her  sympathy,  turned  over  on  his  arm  and 


3 26  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

told  her  all — in  a  few  words  as  regarded  himself,  with  careful 
explanation  as  regarded  Honor. 

"  I  have  the  money  with  me  now,"  he  said,  "  and  Head, 
who  was  so  anxious  to  guide  me,  the  supposed  detective,  away 
from  Eliot,  now  guides  me  to  him,  relies  upon  me  to  save 
him." 

"  And  Honor  knows — knows,  too,  that  he  shot  Allison," 
said  Adelaide  musingly.  "  That  was  the  reason  why  she  was 
so  pale,  and  why  she  brought  all  her  roses,  and  kissed  the 
poor  boy's  forehead." 

"  She  does  not  know,  but  fears." 

"Ah!  we  must  help  the  child,  Stephen;  the  burden  of 
this  is  too  heavy  for  such  young  shoulders.  Go  ;  I  will  not 
keep  you  a  moment  longer ;  I  will  go  back  to  Honor.  But, 
first — God  bless  you  !  Do  not  put  yourself  into  any  danger, 
for  my  sake.  I  have  loved  you  long,  and  years  hence,  when 
we  are  old,  I  shall  love  you  just  the  same." 

They  were  both  standing  now ;  she  came  close  to  him, 
and  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  for  an  instant,  tears  shin- 
ing on  her  cheeks.  He  put  one  arm  around  her,  touched  by 
her  affection ;  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  let  him  look  deep  into 
them  for  one  short  moment.  "He  shall  see  the  truth  this 
once,"  she  thought;  "though  nothing  to  him  now,  it  will 
come  back  to  him." 

Adelaide  Kellinger  did  that  time  a  bold  thing;  she  let 
Wainwright  see  that  she  loved  him,  relying  upon  the  certainty 
that  he  would  not  think  she  knew  he  saw  it,  much  less  that 
she  intended  him  to  see  it.  She  had  the  balance  of  reality  on 
her  side,  too,  because  she  really  did  love  him — in  her  way. 

In  another  moment  he  had  left  her,  and  was  walking  rap- 
idly down  the  river-road.  Adelaide  went  back  to  the  village. 

Her  first  step  was  to  find  out  whether  Honor  was  at  home  ; 
she  was  not.  At  the  library,  then  ?  Not  there.  "  Already 
gone  to  Brother  Bethuel's,"  she  thought.  She  next  woke  up 
Royce,  laughed  at  his  ill  nature,  flattered  him  a  little,  coaxed 
him  into  good  temper,  and  finally  told  him  plainly  that  she 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  327 

would  not  stand  his  bearishness  any  longer ;  that  he  must  go 
and  dress  himself  anew,  brush  his  hair,  and  come  back  and 
be  agreeable. 

"  You  will  turn  into  a  mountain  outlaw  yourself,  if  I  do 
not  see  to  you,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  let  me  off  for  to-day,"  said  Royce  lazily. 

"  This  moment !  " 

She  had  her  way :  Royce  took  himself  off,  followed  by  the 
injunction  to  come  back  looking  like  an  Apollo.  Now,  to 
make  one's  self  look  like  an  Apollo  is  an  occupation  which  no 
young  man  is  in  his  heart  above ;  and,  when  incited  thereto 
by  an  expressed  belief  from  feminine  lips  that  he  has  only  to 
try,  he  generally — tries.  Not  long  afterward  Royce  returned 
to  the  parlor  looking  his  best,  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and 
took  up  a  book  carelessly.  He  knew  Adelaide  would  com- 
ment. She  did.  She  called  him  "  a  good  boy,"  touched  the 
crisp,  curling  ends  of  his  yellow  hair,  and  asked  why  he  kept 
them  so  short;  stroked  his  forehead,  and  said  that,  on  the 
whole,  he  looked  quite  well.  Her  heart  was  beating  rapidly 
as  she  chatted  with  him ;  she  listened  intently ;  everything  de- 
pended upon  a  chance.  Ten  minutes  before,  she  had  exe- 
cuted a  daringly  bold  action — one  of  those  things  which  a 
woman  can  do  once  in  her  life  with  perfect  impunity,  because 
no  one  suspects  that  she  can.  If  she  will  do  it  alone,  and 
only  once,  there  is  scarcely  any  deed  she  may  not  accomplish 
safely.  A  few  more  moments  passed,  Adelaide  still  listening ; 
then  came  a  shuffling  step  through  the  passage,  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and,  without  waiting  for  reply,  the  burly  figure  of 
the  revenue  detective  appeared,  wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown, 
with  head  still  bandaged,  and  eyes  half  closed,  but  mind  suf- 
ficiently clear  to  state  his  errand. 

"  Beg  pardon,"  he  said ;  "  is  Royce  here  ?  I  can't  see 
very  well. — Is  that  you,  Royce  ?  Look  at  this." 

He  held  out  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper. 

"  Seems  to  be  something,  but  I  can't  quite  make  it  out," 
he  said. 


328  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Royce  took  it,  glanced  over  it,  cried,  "  By  Jove !  "  and  was 
out  of  the  room  in  a  second.  The  detective  went  stumbling 
along  after  him ;  he  had  to  feel  his  way,  being  half  blinded 
by  his  swollen  eyelids. 

"  Take  your  pistols  ! "  he  called  out,  keeping  his  hand  on 
the  wall  all  the  way  down  the  passage. 

Royce  had  dropped  the  paper ;  Adelaide  had  instantly  de- 
stroyed it,  and  then  she  followed  the  detective. 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Only  a  line  or  two,  ma'am — from  somebody  in  the  town 
here,  I  suppose — saying  that  one  of  them  distillers,  the  one, 
too,  that  shot  Allison,  was  hidden  in  the  house  of  that  rascal- 
ly, deceiving  little  minister,  up  toward  Eagle  Knob.  They're 
all  in  league  with  each  other,  ministers  or  no  ministers." 

"  Who  wrote  it  ?     How  do  you  know  it  is  true  ?  " 

"  I  dun  know  who  wrote  it,  and  I  dun  know  as  it's  true. 
The  paper  was  throwed  into  my  room,  through  the  winder, 
when  there  didn't  happen  to  be  anybody  around.  It  was 
somebody  as  had  a  grudge  against  this  man  in  particular,  I 
suppose.  'Twas  scrawly  writing,  and  no  spelling  to  speak  of. 
I  brought  it  to  Royce  myself,  because  I  wouldn't  trust  any 
one  to  carry  it  to  him,  black  or  white,  confound  'em  all ! " 

The  detective  had  now  reached  the  end  of  the  passage 
and  his  endurance;  his  hand  was  covered  with  whitewash 
where  he  had  drawn  it  along  the  wall,  his  head  was  aching 
furiously,  and  his  slippers  were  coming  off.  "  You  had  just 
better  go  back,"  he  said,  not  menacingly,  but  with  a  dull  des- 
peration, as  he  sat  down  on  the  first  step  of  the  stairway 
which  led  down  to  his  room,  and  held  his  forehead  and  the 
base  of  his  brain  together  :  they  seemed  to  him  two  lobes  as 
large  as  bushel-baskets,  and  just  ready  to  split  apart. 

"  I  will  send  some  one  to  you,"  said  Adelaide,  departing. 
She  went  to  her  room,  darkened  it,  and  took  a  long,  quiet 
siesta. 

Royce  dropped  his  information,  en  route,   at  the  little 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


329 


camp  in  the  grove,  where  the  trim  companies  of  United  States 
infantry  led  their  regular  orderly  life,  to  the  slow  wonder  of 
the  passing  mountaineers.  Who  would  not  be  a  soldier  and 
have  such  mathematically  square  pieces  of  bread,  such  well- 
boiled  meat  on  a  tin  plate,  such  an  exactly  measured  mug  of 
clear  coffee  ?  Who  would  not  wear  the  light-blue  trousers 
with  their  sharp  fold  of  newness  making  a  straight  line  to  the 
very  boot  ?  Who  would  not  have  such  well-parted,  shining 
hair  ?  So  thought  the  mountain-boys,  and  rode  homeward 
pondering. 

The  officers  in  command,  on  principle  disgusted  for  sev- 
eral seasons  with  still-hunting,  which  they  deemed  police- 
duty,  were  now  ready  to  catch  at  any  straw  to  avenge  the 
death  of  Allison.  The  mountaineers  and  the  detectives  might 
fire  at  each  other  as  long  as  they  enjoyed  the  pastime ;  but 
let  them  not  dare  to  aim  at  an  army-officer — let  them  not 
dare !  They  were  astir  at  once,  and  called  to  Royce  to  wait 
for  them  ;  but  he  was  already  gone. 

Stephen  had  a  start  of  not  quite  forty  minutes ;  but,  un- 
conscious of  pursuit,  he  walked  slowly,  not  caring  to  return 
before  nightfall.  His  natural  gait  was  slow ;  his  narrow  chest 
did  not  take  in  breath  widely,  as  some  chests  do,  and,  slight 
as  his  figure  was,  he  labored  if  hurried.  His  step  was  short 
and  rather  careful,  his  ankles  and  feet  being  delicate  and 
small.  There  was  no  produced  development  of  muscle  on 
him  anywhere  ;  he  had  always  known  that  he  could  not  afford 
anything  of  that  kind,  and  had  let  himself  alone.  As  he  now 
walked  on,  he  dreamed.  Adelaide's  words  rang  in  his  ear ; 
he  could  not  forget  them.  "  A  woman  reads  a  woman,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "Adelaide  thinks  that  I  can  win  her."  Then 
he  let  his  thoughts  go  :  "  At  last  my  life  will  have  an  object ; 
this  sweet  young  girl  will  love  me,  and  love  me  for  myself 
alone  ;  she  is  incapable  of  any  other  feeling."  He  was  very 
human,  after  all ;  he  longed  so  to  be  loved !  His  wealth  and 
his  insignificance  had  been  two  millstones  around  his  neck  all 
his  life ;  he  had  believed  nobody.  Under  every  feeling  that 


330  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

had  ever  come  to  him  lurked  always,  deepest  of  all,  suspicion. 
Now,  late  in  life,  in  this  far-off  wilderness,  he  had  found  some 
one  in  whom  he  believed. 

He  pleased  himself  with  the  thought  of  the  jewels  he 
would  give  her ;  he  journeyed  with  her  in  fancy  through  the 
whole  of  the  Old  World.  The  moisture  came  to  his  eyes  as 
he  imagined  how  she  would  pray  morning  and  night  just  the 
same,  and  that  he  would  be  there  to  see  her ;  he  said  to  him- 
self that  he  would  never  laugh  at  her,  but  would  bring  his 
unbelieving  heart  and  lay  it  in  her  hand :  if  she  could  mold 
it,  well  and  good,  she  might ;  he  would  be  glad.  So  he  walked 
on,  down  the  river-road,  his  long-repressed,  stifled  hope  and 
love  out  of  bonds  at  last. 

A  sound  fell  on  his  dulled  ear,  and  brought  him  back  to 
reality ;  it  was  a  footstep.  "  I  had  better  not  be  seen,"  he 
thought,  and,  climbing  up  the  bank,  he  kept  on  through  the 
thick  hillside-forest.  After  a  moment  or  two,  around  the 
curve  came  John  Royce,  walking  as  if  for  a  wager  ;  two  pis- 
tols gleamed  in  the  belt  he  had  hastily  buckled  around  his 
waist,  and  the  wrinkle  between  his  eyes  had  deepened  into  a 
frown. 

"  It  can  not  be  possible ! "  thought  Wainwright.  But 
rapid  reflection  convinced  him  that,  impossible  as  it  seemed,  it 
might  be  true,  and  that,  in  any  case,  he  had  not  a  moment  to 
lose.  He  was  above  Royce,  he  was  nearer  the  trail  to  Brother 
Bethuel's,  and,  what  was  more,  he  was  familiar  with  all  its 
turnings.  "  Not  to  be  able  to  save  Eliot !  "  he  thought,  as  he 
hurried  forward  over  the  slippery,  brown  pine-needles.  And 
then  it  came  to  him  how  much  he  had  relied  upon  that  to 
hold  Honor,  and  he  was  ashamed.  But  almost  immediately 
after  rose  to  the  surface,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  too,  the 
blunt,  give-and-take  feeling  of  the  man  as  a  man,  the  thought 
— "  You  are  doing  all  this  for  her ;  she  ought  to  repay  you." 
He  hardly  knew  himself ;  he  was  like  Bothwell  then,  and  other 
burly  fellows  in  history ;  and  he  was  rather  pleased  to  find 
himself  so.  He  hastened  across  a  plateau  where  the  footing 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  331 

was  better ;  he  had  turned  farther  up  the  mountain-side,  so 
that  Royce  could  not  by  any  possibility  hear  him  as  he  brushed 
hastily  through  the  undergrowth,  or  stepped  on  crackling  twigs 
or  a  rolling  stone.  The  plateau  soon  ended,  and  the  slanting 
hillside  slanted  still  more  steeply.  He  pushed  on,  keeping  his 
breath  as  well  as  he  was  able,  running  wherever  he  could, 
climbing  over  rocks  and  fallen  trees.  He  was  so  far  above 
the  road  now  that  he  could  not  see  Royce  at  all,  but  he  kept 
his  efforts  up  to  the  task  by  imagining  that  the  young  man 
was  abreast  of  him  below — which  was  true.  He  began  to 
pant  a  little.  The  sleeve  of  his  flannel  coat  had  been  held 
and  .torn  by  a  branch ;  he  had  tripped  on  a  round  stone,  and 
grazed  his  knee.  He  was  very  tired  ;  he  began  to  lope  as  the 
Indians  do,  making  the  swing  of  the  joints  tell ;  but  he  was 
not  long  enough  to  gain  any  advantage  from  that  gait.  At 
last  he  met  the  trail,  and  turned  up  the  mountain ;  the  ascent 
seemed  steeper  now  that  he  was  out  of  breath.  His  throat 
was  dry;  surely,  he  had  time  to  drink  from  the  brook.  He 
knelt  down,  but  before  he  could  get  a  drop  he  heard  a  sound 
below,  and  hurried  on.  Alarmed,  he  sprang  forward  like  a 
hare ;  he  climbed  like  a  cat,  he  drew  himself  up  by  his  hands ; 
he  had  but  one  thought — to  reach  the  house  in  time.  His 
coat  was  torn  now  in  more  places  than  one  ;  a  sharp  edge  of 
rock  had  cut  his  ankle  so  that  his  stocking  was  spotted  with 
red  above  the  low  walking-shoe.  The  determination  to  save 
Eliot  drove  him  on  like  a  whip  of  flame:  he  did  not  know 
how  much  Royce  knew,  but  feared  everything.  His  face  had 
a  singular  appearance :  it  was  deeply  flushed,  the  teeth  were 
set,  the  wrinkles  more  visible  than  ever,  and  yet  there  was  a 
look  of  the  boy  in  the  eyes  which  had  not  been  there  for 
years.  He  was  in  a  burning  heat,  and  breathed  with  a  regu- 
lar, panting  sound ;  he  could  hear  the  circulation  of  his  own 
blood,  and  began  to  see  everything  crimson.  The  trail  now 
turned  straight  up  the  mountain,  and  he  went  at  it  fiercely ; 
he  was  conscious  of  his  condition,  and  knew  that  he  might 
fall  in  a  fit  at  the  house-door  :  never  mind,  if  he  could  only  get 


332  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

there !  His  eyes  were  glassy  now,  his  lips  dry.  He  reached 
the  house,  opened  the  door,  and  fell  into  a  chair.  Brother 
Bethuel,  in  alarm,  sprang  up  and  brought  him  a  dipper  full  of 
water  as  quickly  as  hand  could  fill  the  tin.  Brother  Bethuel 
believed  in  water,  and  this  time  Wainwright  agreed  with  him  ; 
he  swallowed  every  drop. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  he  said  then,  already  on  his  feet  again, 
though  staggering  a  little.  Brother  Bethuel  pointed  down- 
ward, and  Wainwright,  with  a  signal  toward  the  glen,  as 
if  of  near  danger,  disappeared.  The  cellar  was  dimly  light- 
ed by  two  little  windows  a  foot  square,  and  the  man 
who  entered  made  out  two  figures :  one  was  Eliot,  the  other 
Honor. 

"  You ! "  said  Wainwright. 

"  Did  you  not  know  that  I  would  come  ?  "  said  the  girl. 

He  had  not  known  it,  or  thought  of  it.  He  turned  his 
eyes  toward  the  other  figure  ;  everything  still  looked  red.  He 
held  out  a  pocket-book. 

"  Go  ! "  he  said  ;  "  Royce  is  on  your  track ! " 

He  spoke  in  a  whisper  ;  his  voice  had  left  him  as  he  gained 
breath.  Eliot,  a  dark-skinned,  handsome,  but  cutthroat-look- 
ing fellow,  seized  the  money  and  sprang  toward  the  door. 
But  Honor  sprang  too,  and  held  him  back ;  she  had  heard 
something.  The  next  moment  they  all  heard  something — 
Royce  coming  in  above. 

When  the  youth  entered,  Brother  Bethuel  was  quietly 
reading  his  Bible ;  the  table  on  which  it  lay  was  across  the 
cellar-door. 

"  Welcome,"  said  the  little  missionary,  rising.  "  I  am 
happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Royce." 

The  place  looked  so  peaceful,  with  the  Bible,  the  ticking 
clock,  and  the  cat,  that  Royce  began  to  think  it  must  be  all  a 
mistake.  He  sat  down  for  a  moment  to  rest,  irresolute,  and 
not  quite  knowing  what  to  say  next.  The  three,  close  under 
the  thin  flooring  down  below,  did  not  stir,  hardly  breathed. 
Stephen  was  thinking  that,  if  Royce  could  know  the  truth,  he 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  333 

too  would  let  Eliot  go.  But  there  was  not  much  time  for 
thought. 

Brother  Bethuel  brought  out  some  apples,  and  began  to 
converse  easily  with  his  visitor.  After  a  while  he  said,  depre- 
catingly : 

"  Will  you  not  remove  your  pistols  to  the  window-seat 
behind  you,  Mr.  Royce  ?  From  my  youth,  I  could  never 
abide  the  proximity  of  fire-arms  of  any  kind.  They  distress 
me." 

Royce  good-naturedly  took  them  out  of  his  belt,  and 
placed  them  behind  him,  but  within  easy  reach.  The  mis- 
sionary was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 

Not  a  sound  below.  Wainwright  was  breathing  with  his 
mouth  wide  open,  so  as  not  to  pant.  He  was  still  much 
spent. 

But  it  could  not  last  long ;  Royce  felt  that  he  must  search 
the  house,  even  at  the  risk  of  offending  the  little  mission- 
ary. 

"  Mr.  Head,"  he  said,  awkwardly  enough,  "  I  am  very 
sorry,  but — but  a  communication  has  been  received  stating 
that  one  of  the  outlaws,  and  the  one,  too,  who  shot  poor 
Allison,  is  concealed  here,  in  this  house.  I  am  very  sorry, 
but — but  I  must  search  every  part  of  it  immediately." 

Brother  Bethuel  had  risen ;  his  countenance  expressed 
sorrow  and  surprise. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "  search  where  and  as  you  please  I 
but  spare  me  your  suspicions." 

There  was  a  dignity  in  his  bearing  which  Royce  had  not 
seen  before  ;  he  felt  hot  and  ashamed. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Head,  I  regret  all  this,"  he  said;  "and,  of 
course,  it  is  but  a  matter  of  form.  Still,  for  my  own  satis- 
faction, and  yours,  too,  now  I  must  go  through  the  house." 

He  rose  and  moved  a  step  forward.  Quick  as  lightning 
the  little  missionary  had  sprung  behind  him,  and  pushed  the 
pistols  over  the  sill,  through  the  open  window,  down  forty 
feet  on  the  rocks  below. 


334 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


"  Traitor  ! "  cried  Royce,  grappling  him. 

But  it  was  too  late ;  the  pistols  were  gone.  Brother  Beth- 
uel  glowed  openly  with  triumph  ;  he  made  no  more  resistance 
in  Royce's  strong  arms  than  a  rag.  The  young  man  soon 
dropped  him,  and,  hearing  a  sound  below,  ran  to  the  cellar- 
door. 

"  He  has  no  pistols !  "  screamed  Bethuel  down  the  stair 
after  him :  "  you  can  manage  him ;  he  is  alone." 

Then,  setting  all  the  doors  wide  open,  so  that  escape 
would  be  easy,  he  ran  out  to  saddle  Marcher. 

Down  below,  in  the  cellar,  Stephen  had  caught  hold  of 
Royce's  arm.  Royce,  full  in  the  narrow  entranceway,  stood 
glaring  at  Eliot,  and  minding  Stephen's  hold  no  more  than 
the  foot  of  a  fly.  The  light  from  the  horizontal  door  above 
streamed  in  and  showed  Eliot's  dark  face  and  Honor's  dilated 
eyes.  The  girl  stood  near  her  cousin,  but  slightly  behind  him 
as  though  she  feared  his  gaze. 

"You  are  the  man  I  want,"  said  Royce;  "I  recognize 
you  !  "  His  strong  voice  came  in  among  their  previous  whis- 
pers and  bated  breath,  as  his  face  came  in  among  their  three 
faces — Honor's  ivory-pallid  cheeks,  the  outlaw's  strained  at- 
tention, and  Stephen's  gray  fatigue,  more  and  more  visible 
now  as  he  gained  breath  and  sight.  "Yield  yourself  up. 
We  are  two  to  your  one." 

"  We  are  two  to  your  one,"  answered  Eliot :  "  that  man 
beside  you  is  for  me." 

Royce  looked  down  with  surprise  upon  his  cousin,  who 
still  held  his  arm. 

"  No  mistaken  lenity  now,  Stephen,"  he  said  curtly,  shak- 
ing his  arm  free.  "  I  must  have  this  man  ;  he  shot  Allison." 

"  How  are  you  going  to  do  it  ?  "  said  Eliot  jeeringly,  put- 
ting his  hands  deep  down  in  his  pockets  and  squaring  his 
shoulders.  "  Even  Honor  here  is  a  match  for  two  Yan- 
kees." 

"  Miss  Dooris,  I  will  let  you  pass,"  said  Royce  impatient- 
ly. "  Go  up  stairs.  This  is  no  place  for  a  girl  like  you." 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


335 


"  Say  lady !  "  cried  Eliot.     "  She  is  a  Southern  lady,  sir !  " 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Royce  ;  "  you  are  a  fine  person  to  talk  of 
ladies. — Are  you  going,  Miss  Dooris  ?  " 

Great  tears  stood  in  Honor's  eyes  ;  she  did  not  stir. 

"  She  will  not  go,  John,"  said  Wainwright,  "  because  that 
man  is  her  cousin — he  is  an  Eliot." 

"He  is  a  murderer  ! "  said  Royce,  filling  up  the  doorway 
again,  and  measuring  with  his  eye  the  breadth  of  his  oppo- 
nent's shoulders  and  muscle.  "  Now,  then,  are  you  with  me 
or  against  me,  Stephen  ?  If  against  me,  by  Heaven !  I  will 
fight  you  both." 

"  You  do  not  understand,  John.  It  is  Honor's  cousin : 
that  is  why  /  am  anxious  to  save  him." 

"  And  what  is  her  cousin  or  anybody's  cousin  to  me  ?  " 
cried  Royce  angrily.  "  I  tell  you  that  man  shot  Allison,  and 
he  shall  swing  for  it." 

He  sprang  forward  as  if  to  close  with  Eliot,  then  sprang 
back  again.  He  remembered  that  it  was  more  important 
that  he  should  guard  the  door :  there  was  no  other  way  of 
escape.  If  Stephen,  pursuing  the  extraordinary  course  he 
had  taken  in  this  matter,  should  side  with  Eliot,  Brother 
Bethuel  being  a  traitor  too  up  stairs,  he  might  not  be  able  to 
overcome  the  outlaw  in  an  attack.  He  set  his  teeth,  there- 
fore, and  stood  still.  His  hat  was  off ;  the  sunset  light  touched 
his  forehead  and  yellow  hair ;  the  image  of  strength  and 
young  manhood,  he  confronted  them  in  his  elegant  attire — 
confronted  the  outlaw  in  his  rough,  unclean  garments  ;  Honor 
in  her  old,  black  gown ;  and  Stephen  in  his  torn  clothes,  his 
tired  face  looking  yellow  and  withered  as  the  face  of  an  old 
baboon.  He  considered  whether  he  could  keep  the  door  un- 
til the  troops  came:  they  would  not  be  long  behind  him. 
But,  if  he  only  had  his  pistols  ! 

His  eye  glanced  toward  Stephen ;  but  Stephen  never  car- 
ried arms.  Eliot,  probably,  had  only  a  knife ;  if  he  had  had 
a  pistol,  he  would  have  shown  it  before  now.  All  this  in  the 
flash  of  a  second. 


336  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Brother  Bethuel  could  be  heard  bringing  Marcher  around 
the  house.  Stephen  made  one  more  effort.  In  a  few,  con- 
cise words  he  explained  who  Eliot  was,  and  his  own  great 
wish  to  aid  him  in  escaping.  With  his  hand  on  Royce's  arm, 
he  called  his  attention,  by  a  gesture,  to  Honor. 

"  Let  the  man  go  for  my  sake  and — hers,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  looking  up  at  his  young  cousin  with  his  small,  pale- 
colored  eyes. 

Honor  clasped  her  hands  and  made  a  step  forward ;  she 
did  not  speak,  but  implored  with  an  entreating  gaze.  Royce 
threw  his  head  back  impatiently.  All  this  was  nothing  to 
him.  He  would  have  his  man,  or  die  for  it;  they  all  saw 
that. 

Then  Eliot,  who  had  watched  to  see  the  result  of  this 
pleading,  made  up  his  mind. 

"  Stand  back  from  the  door,  or  I  fire  ! "  he  cried,  drawing 
out  his  hand,  and  taking  aim  at  Royce. 

He  had  a  pistol,  then ! 

"  I  give  you  thirty  seconds ! " 

But  Honor,  with  a  wild  scream,  ran  forward,  and  threw 
herself  against  Royce's  breast,  covering  it  with  her  shoulders 
and  head,  and  raising  her  arms  and  hands  to  shield  his  face. 
He  did  not  hold  her  or  put  his  arm  around  her ;  but  she  clung 
to  him  with  her  whole  length,  as  a  wet  ribbon  clings  to  a 
stone. 

"  Leave  him,  Honor !  "  cried  Eliot,  in  a  fury — "  leave  him, 
or  I'll  shoot  you  both  ! " 

"  Shoot,  then ! "  said  Honor,  looking  up  into  Royce's  face, 
and  frantically  trying  to  cover  every  inch  of  it  with  her  shield- 
ing hands. 

Stephen  ran  and  caught  Eliot's  arm  ;  Royce,  half  blinded, 
tried  to  push  the  girl  away ;  then  the  sound  of  the  pistol  filled 
the  room.  Royce  swayed  and  fell  over  heavily,  carrying 
Honor  with  him  as  he  went  down ;  a  ball  had  entered  his 
lung  under  the  girl's  arm,  in  the  little  space  left  open  by  the 
inward  curve  of  her  waist.  Eliot  ran  by  the  two,  up  the  stair, 


UP  IN   THE  BLUE  RIDGE.  337 

and  out  of  the  house ;  but,  as  he  passed  Honor,  he  took  the 
time  to  strike  her  across  the  cheek,  and  curse  her.  At  the 
door  he  found  Marcher,  sprang  into  the  saddle,  and  rode 
away. 

Brother  Bethuel,  with  white  face,  hurried  down  and 
stanched  the  blood ;  he  had  no  small  knowledge  of  surgery 
and  the  healing  craft,  and  he  commanded  Royce  not  to  utter 
a  syllable.  Honor  held  the  young  man's  head  in  her  lap,  and 
every  now  and  then  softly  took  up  his  fallen  hand.  Wain- 
wright  drew  away,  and  watched  her  with  the  deepest  pain  of 
his  life  gnawing  at  his  heart.  He  saw  her  stroke  Royce's  hair 
fondly,  as  if  she  could  not  help  it,  and  saw  her  begin  to  sob 
over  his  closing  eyes  and  the  deepening  violet  shadows  under 
them,  and  then  stop  herself  lest  she  should  disturb  him. 
Brother  Bethuel  was  listening  to  the  breathing  with  bent 
head,  to  find  out  if  there  was  any  chance  for  life.  The  house 
was  as  still  as  a  tomb ;  a  bee  came  in,  and  hummed  above 
their  heads. 

"  He  has  a  chance,"  said  the  missionary  at  last,  fervently, 
raising  his  head.  "  Do  not  let  him  stir."  He  ran  up  stairs 
for  restoratives,  and  Wainwright  sat  down  on  a  stool  which 
had  been  Eliot's  seat  during  his  imprisonment,  and  covered 
his  eyes  with  his  hand.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  sat 
there  a  long  time,  and  that  Honor  must  be  noticing  him 
now.  He  glanced  up;  she  was  gazing  down  at  the  still 
face  on  her  lap.  He  stirred ;  she  motioned  impatiently  for 
silence  with  her  hand,  but  did  not  raise  her  eyes.  He  sat 
looking  at  her  miserably,  and  growing  old,  older  with  every 
moment.  His  lips  quivered  once  as  he  silently  gave  up  for 
ever  his  dream  of  hope  and  love.  He  passed  his  hand  over 
his  dry  eyes,  and  sat  still.  By  the  time  he  was  needed  he 
was  able  to  help  Brother  Bethuel  in  making  Royce  as  com- 
fortable as  possible  on  the  cellar-floor :  they  dared  not  move 
him. 

The  troops  arrived  in  time  to  hear  all  about  it — they  then 
went  back  again. 


338  UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 

Wainwright  returned  to  Ellerby  that  evening.  The  army- 
surgeon  and  a  nurse  had  been  sent  out  immediately  to  the 
mountain  cottage,  and  Colonel  Eliot,  distressed  and  agitated, 
had  accompanied  them.  Wainwright  went  to  his  room,  at- 
tired himself  anew,  and  sought  Adelaide's  parlor.  Adelaide 
received  him  quietly ;  she  said  nothing,  but  came  around  be- 
hind him  and  kissed  his  forehead.  He  looked  up  at  her 
dumbly.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  In  her  strange,  double, 
woman's  way  she  felt  sorry  for  his  sorrow.  She  was  con- 
scious of  no  guilt ;  she  had  only  precipitated  matters.  Honor 
would  never  have  loved  him,  and  it  was  better  he  should 
know  it.  In  truth,  she  had  saved  him. 

And  Honor  ?  Oh,  she  had  the  usual  torments  of  young 
love!  She  was  no  goddess  to  Royce,  only  a  girl  like  any 
other.  He  was  touched  by  her  impulsive  act,  and  during  his 
long  illness  he  began  to  think  more  and  more  about  her.  It 
all  ended  well ;  that  is,  he  married  her  after  a  while,  took  her 
away  to  the  North,  and  was,  on  the  whole,  a  good  husband, 
But,  from  first  to  last,  he  ruled  her,  and  she  never  became 
quite  the  beauty  that  Mrs.  Kellinger  intended  her  to  be,  be- 
cause she  was  too  devoted  to  him,  too  absorbed  in  him,  too 
dependent  upon  his  fancies,  to  collect  that  repose  and  security 
of  heart  which  are  necessary  to  complete  the  beauty  of  even 
the  most  beautiful  woman. 

Ellerby  village  sank  back  into  quietude.  Still  the  moon* 
light  whisky  is  made  up  in  the  mountains,  and  still  the  revenue 
detectives  are  shot.  The  United  States  troops  go  up  every 
summer,  and — come  back  again  !  The  wild,  beautiful  region 
is  not  yet  conquered. 

Wainwright  reentered  society ;  society  received  him  with 
gladness.  A  fresh  supply  of  mothers  smiled  upon  him,  a 
fresh  supply  of  daughters  filed  past  him.  He  made  his  little 
compact  remarks  as  before,  and  appeared  unaltered ;  but  he 
let  the  lime-light  play  about  him  rather  more  continuously 
now,  and  took  fewer  journeys.  He  will  never  swerve  from 
Adelaide  again.  As  they  grow  older,  the  chances  are  that 


UP  IN  THE  BLUE  RIDGE. 


339 


some  day  he  will  say  to  her,  "  Why  should  we  not  be  mar- 
ried, Adelaide  ?  " 

And  she  will  answer,  "  Why  not,  indeed  ?  " 
This  woman  loved  him  ;  the  other  would  never  have  given 
him  more  than  gratitude.     What  would  you  have  ? 


THE   END. 


A  STIRRING  AMERICAN  HOVEL. 


M   A   N   C   H  . 


A   NOVEL. 

By  MARY   E.   BRYAN, 

Editor  of  the  "  Sunny  South." 


One  vol.,  12rr\o.     Glotl\.        -  Price,  $1.50. 


"I  regard  it  as  one  of  the  most  interesting:  and  thrilling  stories  I  ever  read." 
—ALEXANDER  H.  STEPHENS. 

"  The  story  is  strongly  dramatic  and  admirably  handled.  It  is  told  with  great 
vigor  and  skill;  its  dramatic  incidents  are  presented  dramatically;  the  char- 
acters of  its  personages  are  cleverly  discriminated ;  in  a  word  the  workmanship 
of  the  piece  is  in  the  main  sp  good  as  to  justify  us  in  saying  that  the  author  has 
positive  gifts  as  a  novelist."— New  York  Evening  Post. 

"A  story  of  wild  border-life.  It  is  sensational,  working  constantly  to  cli- 
mnxes,  thrflling  in  many  portions,  arousing  the  sympathies  of  the  reader,  and 
holding  his  attention  to  the  end." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"The  plot  is  intricate  and  the  interest  breathless."— New  York  Herald. 

"The  interest  of  the  story  is  maintained  until  the  close."— New  York  Evening 
Express. 

"Its  characters  are  made  to  stand  out  boldly  and  distinctly;  its  plot  is  a 
strong  one  with  no  minor  parallel  threads  to  detract  from  its  power.  Arousing 
interest  at  the  beginning,  it  sustains  and  increases  it  to  the  finale  without  relax- 
ation. Its  motion  is  consistent,  and  at  times  intensely  dramatic.  In  less  skill- 
ful hands  it  might  have  been  called  sensational;  in  those  of  Mrs.  Bryan  it  is  an 
effective  piece  of  art.  The  style  is  colored  with  the  warm  glow  of  the  Creole. 
It  is  tinged  by  the  touch  of  a  rich  poetic  temperament,  and  occasionally  sur- 
prises one  with  a  unique  figure  or  a  dainty  fancy.  Bat  it  is  not  weakly  effeminate 
or  florid ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  characterized  by  more  of  strength  than  accom- 
panies the  work  of  most  women."— Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

"  'Maneh1  is  intensely  dramatic  from  beginning  to  end,  and  while  it  is  pos- 
sible that  the  character  of  the  child,  whose  name  gives  the  book  its  title,  might 
have  been  made  more  vividly  picturesque,  it  is  nevertheless  invested  with  a 
pathetic  interest  all  its  own.  In  brief,  'Manch'  is  a  strong  story— strong  in  ita 
plot,  strong  in  its  suggestions,  and  wholly  original.  We  believe  it  will  be  one 
of  the  most  marked  literary  successes  of  the  season."— Augusta  Chronicle. 


for  sale  by  all  booksellers ;  or  sent  by  mail,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price. 

D.  APPLETOX  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  1,  3,  &  5  BOND  ST.,  NEW  YORK. 


Christian  Reid's  Novels, 


"The  author  has  wrought  with  care  and  with  a  good  ethical  and  artistic 
purpose;  and  these  are  the  essential  needs  in  the  building  up  of  an  American 
literature." 


VALERIE   AYLMER. 

1  vol.,  8vo Paper,  75  cents ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

MORTON   HOUSE. 

1  vol.,  8vo Paper,  75  cents ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

MABEL   LEE. 

1  vol.,  8vo Paper,  75  cents ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

EBB-TIDE. 

1  vol.,  8vo .Paper,  75  cents ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

NINA'S   ATONEMENT,  and  other  Stories. 

1  vol.,  8vo Paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

A   DAUGHTER   OF   BOHEMIA. 

1  vol.,  8vo Paper,  75  cents ;  cloth,  $1.26. 

HEARTS   AND   HANDS. 

8vo Paper,  50  cents. 

THE   LAND   OF   THE    SKY. 

Illustrated.    8vo Paper,  75  cents ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

A   QUESTION   OF   HONOR. 

1vol.,  12mo Cloth,  $1.25. 

AFTER   MANY   DAYS. 

1  vol.,  8vo Paper,  75  cents ;  cloth,  $1.25. 

BONNY    KATE. 

1  vol.,  8vo Paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

A   SUMMER   IDYL. 

(Forming  No.  XII.  in  Appletons1  "New  Handy-Volume  Series.1")    1vol., 
18mo.    Paper,  30  cents. 

A   GENTLE   BELLE. 

8 vo . Paper,  50  cents. 


***  Either  of  the  above  mailed  to  any  address  in  the  United  States,  postage 
paid,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  1,  3,  &  5  BOND  ST.,  NEW  YOKK. 


DI     GARY. 

A  NOVEL  OF  LIFE  IN  VIRGINIA  SINCE  THE  WAR. 
By  M.  JACQUELINE  THORNTON. 


8vo.    Paper.       -       -       Price,  7S  cents. 


"It  is  one  of  the  best  Southern  novels  that  has  yet  come 
under  our  observation." — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  '  Di  Gary '  is  certainly  one  of  the  very  best  and  most  health- 
ful of  recent  Southern  adventures  in  the  realm  of  fiction." — 
Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  The  novel  has  an  excellent  basis.  The  plot  is  good,  and  is 
rich  in  dramatic  situations  and  in  contrasts  of  character." — Boston 
Post. 

"The  best  characters  in  the  story  are  the  comical  ones,  some 
of  which  are  new  creations." — Springfield  Republican. 

"  It  has  the  eagerness,  the  freshness,  the  crowd  of  incidents  and 
fancies  that  writers  lavish  upon  the  first-born  of  their  brain.  Miss 
Thornton  has  much  power  and  originality,  and  a  clear  sense  of  the 
effectiveness  and  beauty  of  language." — Portland  Daily  Press. 

"  The  contrasts  of  plantation-life — the  past  and  the  present — 
are  brought  vividly  before  the  reader,  and  the  picture  is  drawn 
so  lovingly,  and  yet  with  so  many  realistic  touches,  that  any  one 
who  has  visited  the  houses,  shared  in  the  confidences,  or  listened 
to  the  conversations  of  the  elderly  surviving  members  of  historical 
Virginia  families,  will  recognize  its  perfect  truthfulness." — Balti- 
more Sun. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  1,  3,  &  5  BOND  STREET,  N.  Y. 


American  Authors  and  Artists, 


NEW  ILLUSTRATED   COOPER. 

Tl\e  Novels  of  J.  Fenimore  Cooper. 

With  64  Engravings  on  Steel,  from  Drawings  by  F.  0.  C.  DARLEY. 
Complete  in  16  volumes.  Price  for  the  complete  set,  $16.00. 

***  This  edition  of  the  Novels  of  Cooper  is  the  cheapest  ever  offered  to  the 
public.  It  contains  the  entire  series  of  novels,  two  being  hound  in  each  volume ; 
and  the  series  of  steel  plates,  from  drawings  by  F.  O.  C.  Darley,  originally  en- 
graved for  the  finer  editions,  at  a  great  cost,  which  are  conceded  to  be  the  beet 
work  on  steel  ever  produced  in  America. 

Tl\e  Homes  of  America. 

With  103  Illustrations  on  Wood.  Edited  by  Mrs.  MARTHA  J. 
LAMB,  author  of  "  The  History  of  the  City  of  New  York."  Quarto. 
In  full  morocco,  price,  $12.00 ;  in  cloth,  extra  gilt,  price,  $6.00. 

"The  Homes  of  America"  is  a  superb  holiday  volume,  of  quarto  size,  ex- 
quisitely printed  on  toned  paper,  containing  engravings  of  the  highest  art-char- 
acter, illustrating  the  homes  of  America  in  the  Colonial,  the  Later,  and  the  Mod- 
ern Periods.  It  will  have  a  leading  place  among  the  holiday  books  of  the  seaton. 

Landscape  in  American  Poetry. 

Illustrated  from  Original  Drawings  by  J.  APPLETON  BROWN.  De- 
scriptive Text  by  LUCY  LARCOM.  Large  octavo.  In  full  morocco, 
price,  $8.00 ;  in  cloth,  extra  gilt,  price,  $4.00. 

The  illustrations  in  the  volume  are  of  remarkable  freshness,  and  illustrate, 
so  far  as  practicable,  the  actual  scenes  described  in  the  verses  of  Bryant,  Long- 
fellow, Lowell,  Whitticr,  and  others  of  our  poets.  The  engravings,  therefore, 
apart  from  their  striking  and  artistic  beauty,  have  associations- that  add  greatly 
to  their  value  and  interest. 

American  Painters. 

Being  Biographical  Sketches  of  Fifty  leading  American  Artists, 
with  Eighty-three  Examples  of  their  Works,  engraved  on  Wood, 
in  the  most  perfect  manner.  In  cloth,  extra  gilt,  price,  $7.00. 

As  an  evidence  of  the  value  and  beauty  of  this  volume,  we  may  mention  that 
the  cost  of  the  engravings  was  nearly  thirteen  thousand  dollars.  The  publishers 
are  justified  in  saying  that  the  contemporaneous  art  of  no  country  has  ever  been 
so  adequately  represented  in  a  single  volume,  nor  has  any  work  of  the  kind  been 
produced  here  or  abroad  in  which  the  illustrations  surpass  it. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers ;  or  sent,  post-paid,  to  any  address  in  the  United 
States,  on  receipt  of  price. 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers,  New  York. 


"  We  can  not  too  highly  commend  this  latest  scheme  for  presenting  good 
literature  in  comely  and  convenient  shape,  at  extremely  low  prices." — NEW 
YORK  EVENING  POST.  

Appletons'  New  Handy-Volume  Series. 

BRILLIANT  NOVELETTES;   ROMANCE,  ADVENTURE,  TRAVEL,  HUMOR; 
HISTORIC,  LITERARY,  AND  SOCIETY  MONOGRAPHS. 


1.  Jet :  Her  Face  or  her  Fortune  ?     A  Story.     By  Mrs.  ANNIE 

EDWARDES.     Price,  30  cts. 

2.  A  Struggle.     A  Story.     By  BARNET  PHILLIPS.     Price,  25  cts. 

3.  Jlisericordia.     A  Story.     By  ETHEL  LYNN  LINTON.     Price,  20  cts. 

4.  Gordon  Baldwin,  and  The  Philosopher's  Pendulum.    By 

RUDOLPH  LINDAU.     Price,  25  cts. 

5.  The  Fisherman  of  Auge.     A  Story.     By  KATHARINE  S.  MAC- 

QUOID.    Price,  20  cts. 

6.  The  Essays  of  Elia.     First  Series.     By  CHARLES  LAMB.     Paper, 

30  cts. ;  cloth,  60  cts. 

7.  The  Bird  of  Passage.    By  J.  SHERIDAN  LE  FANU.    Price,  25  cts. 

8.  The    House    of  the    Two    Barbels.     By  ANDRE   THEURIET. 

Price,  20  cts. 

9.  Lights  of  the  Old  English  Stage.     Price,  30  cts. 

10.  Impressions  of  America.     By  R.  W.  DALE.     Price,  30  cts. 

11.  The  Goldsmith's  Wife.     A  Story.     By  Madame  CHARLES  REY- 

BAUD.     Price,  25  cts. 

12.  A  Summer  Idyl.     A  Story.     By  CHRISTIAN  REID.     Price,  30  cts. 

13.  The  Arab  Wife.    A  Romance  of  the  Polynesian  Seas.    Price,  25  cts. 

14.  Mrs.'  Gainsborough's  Diamonds.    A  Story.     By  JULIAN  HAW- 

THORNE.    Price,  20  cts. 

15.  Liquidated,  and  The  Seer.    By  RUDOLPH  LINDAU.    Price,  25  cts. 

16.  The  Great  German  Composers.    Paper,  30  cts. ;  cloth,  60  cts. 

17.  Antoinette.     A  Story.     By  ANDRE  THEURIET.     Price,  20  cts.  "* 

18.  John-a-Dreams.     A  Tale.     Price,  30  cts. 

19.  Mrs.  Jack.   A  Story.   By  FRANCES  ELEANOR  TROLLOPS.  Price,  20  cts. 

20.  English  Literature.     By  T.  ARNOLD.   -From  the  "Encyclopaedia 

Britannica."     Price,  25  cts. 

21.  Raymonde.     A  Tale.     By  ANDRE  THEURIET.    Price,  30  cts. 

22.  Beaconsfield.     By  GEORGE  MAKEPEACE  TOWLE.     Price,  25  cts. 

23.  The  Multitudinous  Seas.    By  S.  G.  W.  BENJAMIN.    Price,  25  cts. 

24.  The  Disturbing  Element.  By  CHARLOTTE  M.  YONGE.  Price,  30  cts. 

25.  Fairy   Tales:    their  Origin   and  Meaning.     By  JOHN  THACKRAY 

BUNCE.     Price,  25  cents. 
23.  Thomas  Carlyle :  His  Life — his  Books — his  Theories.    By  ALFRED 

H.  GUERNSEY.     Paper,  80  cts. ;  cloth,  60  cts. 
27.  A  Thorough    Bohemienne.    A  Tale.     By  Madame  CHARLES 

REYBAUD.     Paper,  30  cts. ;  cloth,  60  cts. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 

APR12'83     N 


'65(F6282s8)2373 

Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  pric 

D  APPLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers,  1,  3,  &  5  Bond  Street,  New  York. 


APPLETONS' 

COLLECTION  OF  FOREIGN  AUTHORS. 


The  design  of  the  "  Collection  of  Foreign  Authors "  is  to  give  selections  from  the 
better  current  light  literature  of  France,  Germany,  and  other  countries  of  the  European 
Continent,  translated  by  competent  hands.  The  series  will  be  published  in  uniform 
ISmo  volumes,  at  a  low  price,  and  bound  in  paper  covers  and  in  cloth. 

I.-SAMUEL  BROHL  AND  COMPANY.  A  Novel.  From  the  French 

of  VICTOR  CUEBBULIEZ.    1  vol.,  16mo.    Paper  cover,  60  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

II.— GERARD'S  MARRIAGE.    From  the  French  of  ATOBE  THEUBIET. 

Paper  cover,  50  cents ;  cloth,  75  coats. 
III.— SPIRITE.   A  Fantasy.    From  the  French  of  THEOPHILE  GAITTIEB.  Paper 

cover,  50  cents ;  cloth,  T5  cents. 
IV.-THE  TOWER  OF  PERCEMONT.    From  the  French  of  GEORGE 

SAJO>.    Paper  cover,  50  cents;  cloth,  75  cents. 
V.— META  HOLDENIS.    A  Novel.    From  the  French  of  VICTOE  CHEBBU- 

LIEZ.    Paper  cover,  50  cents ;  cloth,  75  cents. 
VI.— ROMANCES  OF  THE  EAST.    From  the  French  of  COMTE  DE  Go- 

BINEAU.    Paper  cover,  60  cents ;  cloth,  $1.00. 
VII.— RENEE  AND  FRANZ  (Le  Bleuet).   From  the  French  of  GUSTAVE 

HALLEB.    Paper  cover,  50  cents ;  cloth,  75  cents. 

VIII.— MADAME  GOSSELIN.  From  the  French  of  Louis  ULBACH.  Paper 
cover,  60  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

IX.— THE  GODSON  OF  A  MARQUIS.     From  the  French  of  ANDRE 

THEUEIET.    Paper  cover,  50  cents ;  cloth,  75  cents. 
X.— ARIADNE.    From  the  French  of  HENBY  GBEVILLE.    Paper  cover,  50 

cents ;  cloth,  75  cents. 
XI.— SAFAR-HADGI ;  or,  Huss  and  Turcoman.    From  the  French 

of  Prince  LUBOMIRSKI.    Paper  cover,  60  cents ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

XII.— IN  PARADISE.  From  the  German  of  PAUL  HETSE.  In  Two  Volumes. 
Per  vol.,  paper  cover,  60  cents ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

XIII. -REMORSE.    From  the  French  of  Tn.  BENTZON.    Paper  cover,  50  cents ; 

cloth,  75  cents. 
XIV.— JEAN  TETEROL'S  IDEA.   From  the  French  of  VICTOR  CHERBULIEZ, 

author  of  "  Samuel  Brohl  and  Company."  Paper  cover,  60  cents ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

XV.— TALES  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PAUL  HEYSE.    Paper 
cover,  60  cents ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

XVL-THE  DIARY  OF  A  WOMAN.    From  the  French  of  OCTAVE  FEUIL- 

LET.    Paper  cover,  50  cents ;  cloth,  75  cents. 

XVIL- YOUNG  MAUGARS.  A  Novel.  From  the  French  of  ANDBE  THEr- 
EIET,  author  of  "  Gerard's  Marriage,"  "  The  House  of  the  Two  Barbels,"  etc. 
Paper  cover,  60  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

on  re*  F *****  if  ^  ^^  SCnt  *y  ^^  V0&i~V&]^  to  *"?  address  ta  the  United  States, 
D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  1,  3,  &  5  BOXD  ST.,  N.  Y. 


THE 

TURNER    GALLERY. 

A  SERIES  OF 

One  Hundred  and  Twenty  Engravings  on  Steel, 

FBOM  THE  WORKS  OP 

J.   Mi.  W.   TTimSTER,    IR..A.. 

Each  plate  is  accompanied  by  historical  and  critical  remarks,  compiled  from 

authentic  sources,  so  that  the  whole  affords  a  most  instructive  guide 

to  the  study  of  Turner's  unrivaled  pictures. 

Two  folio  volumes.     Price,  half  morocco,  $32.00;  full  morocco,  $36.00. 

TURNER,  the  world-renowned  English  painter,  is  not  only  acknowledged  to  be 
the  greatest  landscape-painter  England  has  produced,  but  he  is,  by  general  con- 
sent, placed  next  to,  if  not  by  the  side  of,  Claude  Lorraine,  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  great  Continental  masters  in  landscape-art.  Turner's  paintings,  being 
remarkable  for  breadth  of  effect  and  of  shadow,  and  brilliant  representation  of 
light,  are  peculiarly  adapted  for  engraving.  It  is,  indeed,  remarkable  that, 
although  the  most  vivid  colorist  of  modern  times,  no  painter's  works  are  BO 
susceptible  of  reproduction  by  the  graver. 


POET  AND  PAINTER: 

Or,  Gems  of  Art  and  Song. 

A  n  imperial  8z>ff  volume,  containing  Choice  Selections  from  the  English  Poets. 

Superbly  illustrated  with  Ninety-nine  Steel  Engravings,  printed  in  the  best 
manner  on  the  page  with  the  text. 

New  edition:  cloth,  extra,  $12.00;  morocco,  antique,  or  extra,  $20.00. 
D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  PCBMSHFKS,  NEW  YORK. 


PS3362.R6 


3  2106  00208  4843 


